《Hell Difficulty Tutorial - Beyond Death》 Chapter 1: The Proposal In the endless void, silence reigned. No sound, no movement¡ªonly stillness. Yet, there was life. Or something resembling it. Suspended amidst countless galaxies, two figures existed in equilibrium. The first, a towering, metallic construct, its angular form glinting with the faint light of far-off universes. Gears and circuits shifted beneath its translucent shell, creating a faint hum that reverberated through the void. The second was a golden figure¡ªa humanoid silhouette that pulsed with shifting light. Its face was smooth and featureless. Every flicker of its form seemed to press against the metal being, pushing, testing, teasing the balance between them. The construct¡¯s voice broke the silence first, cold and measured. ¡°A game?¡± Its tone carried doubt and skepticism woven into the monotone sound.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. The golden man tilted its head, as though considering the question. Then came its response, smooth and tinged with amusement. ¡°That, or something simpler.¡± A ripple of golden light surged outward, brushing against the robotic entity''s edges. The pressure increased¡ªimperceptibly at first, then palpably so. ¡°Fighting to the death.¡± The construct shifted. Its edges sharpened, its internal mechanisms accelerating. Its voice came again, clipped and precise. ¡°Query¡ªrules.¡± The golden figure did not immediately answer. Instead, its head tilted further, a grotesque smile spreading where no mouth should exist. The void seemed to warp in response, bending around the curvature of that alien expression. ¡°Rules?¡± it finally said, the smile widening further until it felt like the void itself might split. Laughter¡ªlow, resonant, and dripping with malice¡ªescaped from where the smile should have been. The sound danced between the stars, slipping through cracks in the frozen time. ¡°Oh, there will be rules,¡± it said at last. Its golden glow intensified, swallowing fragments of light from the surrounding galaxies. ¡°But they won¡¯t be yours.¡± The pressure surged once more. The robotic being braced, gears clicking in rapid succession, yet the equilibrium held¡ªfor now. All around them, the universes continued to spin in perfect suspension, oblivious to the brewing storm. Chapter 2 - Two Suns I am dueling Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi with a piece of cheese. It¡¯s intense¡ªgritty combat with high stakes¡ªuntil the One Piece falls out of nowhere and squashes me into pulp. Just like that. The dream changes, as dreams are prone to do, slipping between absurd scenarios I won¡¯t bother remembering. Half-lucid as always, I let the nonsense wash over me, enjoying the mayhem. And then, suddenly, I wake up. To blinding light. To terrified screams. The sensation is akin to being hoisted into the air and dropped, stomach plummeting like I¡¯m on a rollercoaster. I land flat on my back with a solid thud, grass of all things cushioning the impact. My breath escapes in a wheeze, but adrenaline floods my veins almost instantly¡ªsharp, biting, a visceral jolt that drives me upright before I even register what¡¯s happening. My eyes snap open, squinting hard as the blinding sunlight pierces down through the treetops. My pupils contract in rebellion, and for a moment, everything is a painful, blurry mess. The screams. They¡¯re louder now, filling the air with a cacophony of fear, anger, and raw panic. Men, women, strangers of every shape and size shout, cry, and stumble in every direction. Some dart out of what looks like half a bar¡ªyes, half a goddamn bar. The wooden structure is sliced cleanly in two, one half missing entirely, the other teetering like a drunk on the verge of collapse.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Some of these people are yelling at their phones, others are pointing wildly at the sky, and a few are just¡­ breaking. Their eyes are wide and glassy, mouths working soundlessly as if the reality of the situation has broken something fundamental inside them. I gape at the chaos, rooted to the spot even as a voice in my head screams, Run, you idiot! This place is not safe! Yeah? And run where, exactly? I wrench my gaze from the mob and glance around. We¡¯re in a clearing¡ªa small, grassy space surrounded by towering trees that stretch toward an endless sky. The forest looms all around us, dark and indifferent. I pat myself down, the action almost automatic. Shorts? Check. T-shirt? Check. Shoes? Socks? Dignity? Not even a whisper. I¡¯m standing here in my pajamas, practically naked and utterly unprepared for whatever the hell this is. No shoes. No socks. No Earth for you. Fan-fucking-tastic. I pinch myself, half-heartedly. No dice. ¡°Drugs?¡± I mutter. ¡°Aliens? Motherfucking father-sucking isekai?¡± The thought is insane. So is the situation. The voice of reason whispers, "Ask someone what happened!" , but it¡¯s drowned out by the shrieking lunatic in my head that¡¯s already singing, Isekaaaaaaai! ¡°WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO CALM DOWN?!¡± The shout jolts me back to the present. I glance toward the group of strangers, now devolving into outright chaos. An old man, maybe 70 years old¡ªface red, spittle flying¡ªpoints wildly at the sky, his words sharp and venomous as he berates anyone and everyone near him. Huh? Against my better judgment, I follow his gaze and freeze. Two suns. Two fucking suns hang in the sky. The first is bright and familiar, its golden glow softened by wisps of cloud. The second is smaller, dimmer, and a deep orange, hanging low to the left of its twin. My breath catches. A smile creeps onto my face, unbidden and entirely inappropriate. I slap a hand over my mouth before anyone can notice, the gesture more instinct than thought. The last thing I need is to seem happy right now, not with everyone already losing their minds. ¡°Not insane,¡± I whisper to myself, voice shaky. ¡°Nope. Not at all.¡± The voice of reason, weak and barely audible, adds, Good. Blend in. Act normal. But the other voice¡ªthe one cackling and screaming ISEKAAAAAAAI IS THE WINNEEEEEERRRRR¡ªis a lot harder to ignore. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look away from the twin suns. The scene unfolding around me is pure madness, so what¡¯s one more thing? What¡¯s one more impossible leap? ¡°Status,¡± I whisper. A translucent blue window flickers into existence before me, faintly glowing against the sunlight. The voices stop. The world doesn¡¯t. Chapter 3 - Welcome to the tutorial [Name: @????????????#?????????????????$????????&????????????(??????????????)??????] Difficulty: Hard Floor: 1 Time left until forced return: 4y 364d 23h 56m 12s Lvl 0 Strength: 5 Dexterity: 8 Constitution: 5 Mana: 1 [Primary Class: Unavailable] [Sub-class: Unavailable] Skills: Soul Well - lvl 1 Fleshcrafting - lvl 1 [Skill Points: 0] [Stat Points: 0] I stare at the glowing blue screen in front of me, unblinking. My eyes trace each word, each number, as if staring harder will change them. What was there to say? To think? Sure. Why not. I can feel my lips curl upward in a half-smile, half-grimace. This is happening. Incomprehension was a luxury for the fragile, for the ones who couldn''t¡ªor wouldn''t¡ªaccept something like this.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. I can. I will. Why fight it? Why bargain with reality, get angry, or start weeping over something that simply is? Read it again. Slower. The command cuts through the haze in my mind, sharp and cold. The voice of discipline. My brain, still fried from sensory overload, obeys out of sheer habit. Nerve signals crawl sluggishly to my eyes, forcing them to focus, to work. Mechanically, I scan the words again. [Name: $????????????????????#???????????????????????????????@?????????????????????????????????????????] [Skills: Soul Well - lvl 1. Fleshcrafting - lvl 1.] [Difficulty: Hard.] The more I read, the steadier my breathing becomes, the more grounded I feel. But with each line, questions spring to life in my head like weeds. ¡°What the eldritch fuck is wrong with my name?¡± This question roars the loudest among the chaotic mess in my mind. It looks like it was scribbled by someone who can smell colours with their feet. ¡°Fucking Fleshcrafting? Really?¡± The others¡ªHard difficulty? Time left? Floor one?¡ªlinger on the edges, quieter but no less important. They tap politely at the doors of my awareness, waiting for their turn. It doesn''t come because the screams once more pull me out of my thoughts. They¡¯re much louder now, sharper, edged with raw panic. The mob that had been shouting and arguing is scattering, people darting in every direction like startled ants. Some point, others scream warnings I can¡¯t quite make out. I follow their gestures toward the edge of the clearing. That¡¯s when I see it. Small. Green. Humanoid. A picture-perfect, honest-to-god goblin. Its skin is sickly green, its body wiry and compact, most likely built for speed rather than strength. It clutches a crude wooden spear in its clawed hands. Its face¡ªif you could call that ugly mug a face¡ªis twisted into a manic grin, yellowed teeth bared in wild excitement. And it¡¯s cackling. The sound carries across the clearing, shrill like nails on a chalkboard. Some people freeze. The goblin doesn¡¯t. It bolts forward, legs pumping furiously, spear held low and ready. Above its head, floating in translucent white letters: [Goblin - lvl 1] The screams grow even louder, desperate and panicked. Some people run toward the trees, vanishing into the forest, while others stumble back, too shocked to move. A few try to organize, shouting things like ¡°Stay together!¡± or ¡°Find weapons!¡± but their voices are drowned out by the chaos. The goblin keeps coming. Closer now, its cackling rises into a frenzied pitch. Its bloodthirsty expression leaves no room for doubt¡ªthis isn¡¯t a friendly encounter. My hands clench into fists. My breath quickens. The voice of Reason tries to argue¡ªtries to urge me to run, to hide. I feel the old, familiar tug in the back of my mind, the fear that tells me to take the easiest path out. But that voice is quickly trampled, crushed under the boot of Discipline and Madness. The two merge together like fire and ice¡ªno longer separate but a singular force that drives me forward. Purpose. I take a breath, and with a grin that stretches so wide it hurts, I lower my hands to the dirt, gripping two handfuls of it. The goblin¡¯s cackle rings in my ears, loud and distorted as it hurtles toward my general direction, reckless in its bloodlust. I hear a scream nearby, so loud that it cuts through the frenzy of the mob. A fallen man. He¡¯s on the rounder side of the scale, wriggling on the ground, trying and failing to get back up, eyes so widened by fear they might just fall out of their sockets. The goblin moves swiftly, raising its crude wooden spear, and with a quick thrust¡ªit stabs the man in the neck. Blood splatters, crimson painting the ground. Chapter 4 - Its done The goblin tears its spear free from the fat man''s neck with a wet, sucking sound. Blood gushes from the wound in a slow, sticky rhythm as the body crumples fully to the ground. It laughs. A harsh, grating sound that echoes across the clearing. The goblin raises its gaze to the scattered humans, baring jagged teeth in triumph. I hurl a fistful of dirt into its face. The goblin shrieks, clawing at its eyes, waving its spear wildly like a club. One of those wild swings connects, smashing into my shoulder. Pain flares, sharp and immediate, but I barely feel it. I step in close and drive my fist into its throat. The goblin gags, its spear slipping from its grip as it stumbles backward. It flails, claws swiping weakly at me, but I don¡¯t stop. I don¡¯t let it breathe. I slam my fist into one of its bulbous eyes, the soft tissue collapsing under the force. The goblin hits the ground, writhing, its claws scrabbling at nothing. Dirt. I hurl the second handful straight into its open mouth. It chokes, retching and gagging, hacking up wet, desperate noises as its body spasms. Before it can recover, I grab the fallen spear. The wood feels rough and sticky in my hands, but I don¡¯t hesitate. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. I drive the tip into its neck, pinning it to the ground. Blood bubbles from the wound, spilling down its chest, and the goblin''s flailing slows, then stops entirely. It¡¯s done. I stay crouched there, my hands still on the spear. My breath comes in sharp bursts, but I feel alive in the way I always feel when I win. Alas, this time the feeling is even stronger than usual. My tongue stings¡ªblood drips from my mouth where I bit it, hard enough to stop myself from laughing. The adrenaline thrums through me, veins singing, muscles trembling. Was this why people loved contact sports so much? The voice of madness was even disappointed the little guy died so easily, but its clear as day there will be more to come, so the internal grumbling stops. [You have defeated a Goblin - lvl 1] [Lvl 0 > Lvl 1] The text appears in my vision, but I barely notice. My attention shifts to the people around me, some holding wooden planks taken from the Half-Bar, their wide eyes locked on me like I¡¯m some kind of monster. I let the spear drop from my hands, the wooden shaft landing lightly on the grass. I force my grin to soften, pulling it into something more controlled, more human. ¡°My friends!¡± I call, my voice clear and calm. ¡°The monster is dead! Please, come, and let us help this man who was stabbed!¡± I kneel next to the fat man¡¯s corpse, pressing my hands against his chest as if starting CPR. His body is still warm, but his glassy eyes and slack expression tell me all I need to know. He¡¯s long gone. The others don¡¯t move. They¡¯re frozen, murmuring to each other, but too scared to get any closer. That¡¯s fine. If another goblin shows up, they¡¯ll scream. I keep my head bowed, my hands pressing rhythmically against the fat man¡¯s chest as I ignore the smell of blood and the way his skin feels under my palms. I also ignore the fact that he might still be alive if I didn''t judge him to be more useful as a distraction for the goblin. It''s not that hard, I didn''t even know the guy, and the deed was done. No use wallowing around for a fact that''s set in stone. My eyes drift to the mist rising from his body, a faint, curling vapor that swirls lazily upward. I try grabbing it with my fingers but they phase through it. So I grab it with imaginary hands, willing the mist...the soul to move. Now it barely seems to stirr. How? I have not the slightest fucking idea, the smallest thrice-damned clue, but I have a vague feeling that I''m on the right path. Why? Well, let''s just say that the voice of Madness made compelling arguments, backed up by Reason, unexpectedly. What could this mist be but the fat man''s soul? Didn''t I have a skill called Soul Well? Wasn''t touching corpses frowned upon? ...Wasn''t this a perfect opportunity? The clearing feels quiet now, or maybe my ears are just too tired to pick up anything else. I exhale slowly, forcing myself to focus. Chapter 5 - Playing tricks My hands press rhythmically against the fat man¡¯s chest. Push, push, push. I keep my focus sharp, every motion deliberate as I try to force life back into the motionless body. The neck wound has been hastily bandaged¡ªpoorly, sure, but good enough to keep the others from questioning me too much. I keep my eyes wide and my face solemn, avoiding any blinking to keep the tears pouring. Internally, though, I¡¯m starting to get annoyed. Five minutes. Five minutes, and I¡¯ve made no progress with the soul mist. A dozen people have gathered now, forming a loose half-circle around me. Sadness, fear, and quiet murmurs ripple through the crowd, but they¡¯re watching me like I¡¯m some kind of tragic hero. I can practically feel the weight of their misplaced respect pressing down on me. It won¡¯t be long before someone steps in to stop me, though. Probably one of the drunk ones. Yes, drunk. I can smell the alcohol on them even from a few meters away, which is impressive, considering my nose is always runny. Their stumbling, slurred movements make it obvious now that I pay a bit of attention to them. Not surprising, really¡ªthese people had clearly been out drinking when the telefrag hit. Unlucky for the fat man. If they¡¯d been sober, maybe someone other than me would¡¯ve fought back or at least tried to help before running. There are 15 or so able-bodied men, not counting me or my brain dead friend. Lucky for me, eh? Their drunken hesitation gives me time to experiment with his soul. The others don¡¯t seem to notice the mist rising faintly from his body¡ªor if they do, they haven¡¯t reacted to my prodding and poking at it. It wavers and swirls under my touch, almost alive, but it¡¯s¡­ too heavy. That¡¯s the only way I can describe it. I can¡¯t get it to condense, no matter how hard I focus. Condense it into what, exactly? I don¡¯t know. There¡¯s an itch in the back of my mind¡ªa whisper that might be Madness playing tricks on me¡ªbut the instinct feels real. The heaviness, though. That¡¯s undeniable.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Fat-phobia is real, I think, almost snorting at the absurdity of it. If being fat makes your soul fat too, maybe it¡¯s got a point. A wrinkled hand clasps my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. I look up and meet the gaze of the old man who had been screaming at the sky earlier. His fury is gone now, replaced by a quiet sadness. ¡°Sir,¡± I stammer, forcing my voice to shake as I meet his eyes. My lower lip trembles just enough. ¡°I¡­ I¡¯m so sorry. I wasn¡¯t fast enough¡­ I¡­¡± The old man shakes his head slowly, patting my shoulder with one hand. In his other hand, he holds a motherfucking twelve-gauge shotgun. The bar owner? the voice of reason theorizes. He must¡¯ve had it in the bar. That¡¯s¡­useful. ¡°You did nothing wrong, sonny,¡± the old man says, his voice low and thick with emotion. ¡°You¡¯re a hero for killing that¡­ creature.¡± He glances at the goblin¡¯s corpse, his expression hardening for a moment before softening again. He tries to comfort me, his words stumbling as he explains how he¡¯d been cleaning glasses behind the bar when a flash of light had blinded him, and the next thing he knew, he was here. His tone is gentle, but his words barely register. The takeaway should be that random things happen that one can''t control, or something. I nod along, letting my face twist from grief into anger. Slowly, deliberately, I rise to my feet. ¡°This place¡­ this horrible fucking place¡­¡± I growl, my voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. ¡°Whoever did this¡­ whoever put us here...¡± My words cut off as I turn and begin stomping on the goblin¡¯s corpse. Again and again, my foot slams down, and then my fists join in. The goblin¡¯s flesh gives way beneath my blows, too easily, almost like wet paper. Just like with the mist, I feel a slight...ability to move the flesh of the corpse, but I couldn''t try it on the human one, now could I? The body collapses inward with each strike, but no one else seems to notice. They¡¯re too busy watching me with wide eyes, some clutching drinks they¡¯d scavenged from who-knows-where. Inappropriate? Or oddly appropriate? I wonder absently, the thought almost funny. As I punch and tear at the goblin¡¯s remains, the mist rising from its body swirls more freely than the fat man¡¯s had. It¡¯s lighter, easier to manipulate, though no one else seems to notice it. Invisible to them, now I''m completely sure. When I finally stop, the goblin¡¯s body is little more than a smear on the ground. My fists ache, blood smears my knuckles, but I kneel down slowly in front of the fat man¡¯s corpse. Lowering my forehead to the ground, I let my shoulders shake as though overcome with emotion. It¡¯s the perfect disguise for the deranged smile that I can no longer suppress. I feel it, deep in my chest¡ªsatisfaction, excitement, something else entirely. [Fleshcrafting - lvl 1 > Fleshcrafting - lvl 2] [Soul Well - lvl 1 > Soul Well - lvl 2] The system text hovers in my vision as the clearing falls silent, save for the faint murmurs of the onlookers behind me. But they don¡¯t matter. Not one bit. Chapter 6 - Aliens The next half an hour or so is quiet, at least for me. I am standing at the edge of the cleaning, a few feet away from the remains of the goblin which I decided to "throw away". No one complained since the smell was truly unflattering. It might attract other monsters, but that honestly seems more like a boon to me. That might change, though, depending on what''s hiding in the forest. The goblin''s soul mist is gone, condensed into a tiny, shimmering nugget of light, no bigger than a grain of rice. It hovers in place, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat, before becoming completely inert. I try to move it with my will, the way I manipulated the mist before, but it¡¯s no use. Whatever it is now, it¡¯s no longer responding to me. Frustrated, I reach out and poke it with my finger. The instant I touch it, the nugget melts into my palm like it was never solid to begin with. And then¡ªit¡¯s gone. "What the hell?" I mutter, staring at my hand as if it just betrayed me. "Is that it? Is this what Soul Well does?" No answers. The nugget might as well have never existed. I glance at my status screen for clues. The level-up notification still lingers, taunting me, but the rest is a blank slate of mystery. Despite my confusion, I feel... full. Not physically, but in a way that¡¯s hard to put into words. The soul nugget must¡¯ve done something when it merged with me. Or maybe I just need to hit the bathroom. I look back toward the Fat Man''s corpse, covered with a dirty sheet by someone but still in the same place as before. No one was in a hurry to touch that one, besides me, of course. Either way, that guy''s soul mist is either completely gone or has faded beyond my senses. Hell, maybe it rose to heaven. The rules of this skill are still a complete mystery to me. But that¡¯s not the only thing bothering me. I focus on my status screen, reading it again and again while dropping into push-ups to keep my mind from spiraling. [Name: @????????????#?????????????????$????????&????????????(??????????????)??????] Difficulty: Hard Floor: 1 Time left until forced return: 4y 364d 23h 20m 12s Lvl 1 Strength: 6 Dexterity: 8 Constitution: 7 Mana: 2 [Primary Class: Unavailable] [Sub-class: Unavailable] Skills: Soul Well - lvl 2 Fleshcrafting - lvl 2 [Skill Points: 0] [Stat Points: 0] The numbers feel surreal, even as I read them for the fifth time. Both skills have leveled up, though I don¡¯t have the slightest clue how to use them properly. Still, it¡¯s progress. I also received three stat points from leveling up, which I spent almost immediately: two on Constitution, one on Mana. My body already feels tougher, more resilient. Even the deep ache in my shoulder from the goblin¡¯s club is fading faster than it should. Mana, on the other hand, doesn¡¯t seem to have any immediate effect. It¡¯s not like I can feel a glowing blue bar in my chest or anything. Still, it seems important, invaluable even if it allows me to use my skills more easily. By the time I finish 300 push-ups, my arms are on fire, but I can¡¯t stop grinning. I just watched my Strength stat rise from 5 to 6 in real time. Impossibly, I feel stronger. Like, "I could actually lift a 20-pound heavier dumbbell right now" stronger.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. This is insane. If Constitution enhances regeneration and toughness, and Strength or Dexterity can improve through sheer effort, then... "This is broken," I whisper to myself, barely suppressing a laugh. "Completely broken." My body aches, but the voice of Discipline keeps pushing me. I glance around the cleaning, taking in the other people. Most of them are still dazed or muttering quietly in groups, clearly too afraid to make sense of the situation. One man is sobbing in a corner, while some others drink like it¡¯ll solve their problems. Madness laughs, Reason sighs, my arms scream bloody murder, but the voice of Discipline is louder than all of them for now.
"You¡¯ve got some stamina there, lad. What¡¯s your name?" The voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance up mid-push-up to find Jim watching me. He''s the old man from earlier, maybe in his seventies, with a mop of white hair and hands scarred from what I assume are decades of bar fights and kitchen burns. He''s been hovering nearby and trying to make conversation for the past few minutes. Maybe it''s because we appear to be the only two sober people around for now, but I¡¯ve mostly ignored him. "Lad?" he presses when I don¡¯t respond. ...Why don''t I respond? It''s reasonable to respond, it''s not a personal question and I gain nothing from staying silent. The corrupted text in the status window flashes in my mind for a brief instant as my eyebrows furrow. The question hangs in the air. "Lad, you listening to me?" Jim asks again, his voice cutting through the haze. I don¡¯t answer right away. My mind churns, but nothing rises to the surface. The voices in my head are silent, waiting. And that¡¯s when I realize it. I don¡¯t remember my own fucking name. And not just my name¡ªI don¡¯t remember anything that should matter. My parents'' faces, my age, my birthday, why the hell I was asleep near a bar wearing pajamas¡ªit¡¯s all gone, wiped clean like a slate that¡¯s been scrubbed too hard. For a moment, fear starts to claw its way up, the kind that could paralyze me if I let it. But Discipline doesn¡¯t stay silent. Like always, it snaps Fear¡¯s neck and throws it back into the deep hole where it fucking belongs. There¡¯s no point in unraveling over what I can¡¯t change right now. Answers won¡¯t help me fight, won¡¯t help me survive. Still, the questions linger. How much of me is missing? Will I even know if I¡¯ve lost something important? I shove those thoughts aside. My general knowledge seems intact. I know what a bottle of water is. My medical knowledge is also fine. That¡¯s enough. For now, I¡¯ll work with what I¡¯ve got. It takes only a few seconds for all of this to churn through my mind. I grab a nearby bottle of water which is most likely Jim''s, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary. The old man gives me a look but doesn''t complain, which leads me to believe he was going to offer it to me either way. Alas, I am a bit beyond caring right now. The cold liquid burns down my throat as I drink, giving myself a moment to think. When I lower the bottle, I glance around, my eyes landing on a group of people huddled near the half-bar. There¡¯s a girl about my age among them, her bright red hair drawing my attention. Her T-shirt has a picture of a race car on it. A name forms in my mind. It¡¯s stupid, but it¡¯ll do. I set the bottle down and look at Jim, forcing a smile that doesn¡¯t quite reach my eyes. "Thanks for the water, and sorry for not responding," I say, my tone light. "I was so focused I didn¡¯t hear you. My name¡¯s Carter. Carter Wheels, at your service." Jim chuckles, probably amused, though his skepticism is written all over his face. "Carter Wheels, huh? Interesting name. What¡¯re you doing push-ups for, anyway? Stress relief?" "Something like that," I say, standing and stretching my arms. He gestures toward the bar, his tone shifting to concern. "You¡¯re gonna wear yourself out, kid. You should conserve your energy in case more of those... things show up. Police¡¯ll probably be here soon to rescue us." I almost laugh. Poor guy. He doesn¡¯t get it yet. I look him up and down, weighing my options. Should I tell him what¡¯s really going on? Would this old-timer even believe me if I tried? The voice of Reason chimes in¡ªyes, it¡¯s worth a shot. It¡¯s not like the truth will stay hidden for long. The other people here will sober up, and at least one of them is bound to notice the weirdness. Better to rip the Band-Aid off now. "Jim," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, "I don¡¯t think the police are coming." His brows knit together, and he frowns. "And why is that, sonny?" His tone carries an edge of anger, reminding me that this is the same guy who was screaming bloody murder an hour ago. "Because we¡¯re not on Earth anymore," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. "I think we¡¯ve been kidnapped by...aliens." Jim blinks, his expression a mix of disbelief and irritation. "Aliens? Are you outta your damn mind?" I resist the urge to snap back, Oi, don¡¯t look at me like I¡¯m drunk, old man! Instead, I keep my voice steady. "Dead serious. Think about it. Two suns in the sky. Goblins running around. None of this is normal. And did you notice the white letters above that monster''s head?" Jim shakes his head, laughing nervously. "Alright, fine, let¡¯s say you¡¯re not insane. Why us? Why a bunch of random folks from a bar?" His denial is clear, but there¡¯s something in his voice¡ªlike he¡¯s grasping for a lifeline, even if he doesn¡¯t want to admit it. "I don¡¯t know why," I admit. "But I can prove something weird is going on. Say the word Status out loud." Jim gives me a look like I¡¯ve grown a second head. "You serious?" "Just do it," I insist. He rolls his eyes but humors me. "Status." A second passes. Then his jaw drops. "What the¡ªholy mother of goddamn¡ªwhat the hell is this?!" His curses could strip paint off a battleship, and I can¡¯t help but smirk. "Stats. Skills. Levels," I say, "Welcome to the grind." I can''t see Jim''s status window, but his face is a storm of confusion and profanity. "Strength? Dexterity? Mana? What the hell is this, some kind of twisted video game?!" "Feels like one," I say with a shrug. "But it¡¯s real. That goblin wasn¡¯t a hallucination. It hit me. I bled. I killed it. And now, I¡¯m stronger because of it." Jim tears his eyes away from the screen, his expression torn between fear and disbelief. "You¡¯re saying we¡¯re stuck in some kind of..." He struggles to finish the sentence. "Maybe. Or maybe it¡¯s worse than that," I reply bluntly. "But one thing¡¯s for sure: we can¡¯t sit around waiting for someone to save us. If we want to survive, we need to adapt. Fast." Jim doesn¡¯t answer right away. His gaze drifts to the others huddled near the half-bar, his shoulders tight with tension. Finally, he nods, though the fear in his eyes lingers. "Alright, Carter. What do we do?" I smile grimly. "Simple. We fight. We train. We survive." Inwardly, I replace "we" with "I", but it''s potato pothato at this point. Jim¡¯s lips press into a thin line, and his voice drops low. "And if we don¡¯t?" "Then we die," I say, already turning toward the half-bar as I prepare to try and raise my dexterity. "But that¡¯s not an option." Chapter 7 - The Holy Time left until forced return: 4y 364d 22h 7m 12s I zip around the clearing in a steady sprint, the air biting at my skin but doing nothing to slow me down. Behind me, a few of the less-drunk survivors are awkwardly trying to follow my lead. They¡¯re clumsy, their movements uncoordinated, and the sight makes me shake my head. The knowledge of the Status window has spread, thanks to Jim, but the group¡¯s lack of enthusiasm is almost disappointing. If I was hammered and someone told me that I now had superpowers, I would either think them mad or go mad with happiness myself. Then again, the fat man¡¯s corpse¡ªdragged by me and Jim to the edge of the clearing¡ªprobably isn¡¯t doing much for morale. They¡¯ll get over it. At least, they¡¯d better. Survival doesn¡¯t leave room for hesitation. I shoot a glance toward Jim, who¡¯s still hovering near the others, trying to calm the group down. Bleeding heart. I had to practically beg him to let me take the dead man¡¯s shoes, of all things. Like, what was the guy going to do with them? Walk to his own funeral? Of course, I didn¡¯t say that to Jim, but the point stands. The thought earns a quiet chuckle from me, but I don¡¯t slow down. My focus snaps back to the task at hand as my legs pump harder, the burn in my muscles starting to creep in. Endurance is holding strong, though, thanks to my Constitution stat. It¡¯s ridiculous how much more stamina I have now. The difference isn¡¯t just noticeable¡ªit¡¯s game-changing. Still, part of me regrets putting one of my points into Mana. Seemed like a good idea at the time, but without knowing how to actually use the damn stuff, it feels like a waste. For now, I push the thought aside and keep running. The effort has already paid off. My Dexterity stat bumped up from 8 to 9 after a while, and the improvement is obvious. I¡¯m faster now, not just in terms of speed but in the way my body moves¡ªsmoother, more precise. The increase feels almost surreal, like upgrading a character in a game, except the changes are happening in real time. I want another point. The thought keeps me moving, my feet pounding against the dirt as I force myself to focus on something else¡ªanything to keep my mind occupied. My thoughts drift back to my Status window, analyzing every little detail that stands out. The ¡°Floor 1¡± label catches my attention again. It¡¯s interesting, to say the least. If this really is structured like a game, then there must be more floors¡ªprobably a lot more. The question is how we move between them. Are there specific requirements we need to fulfill? Some kind of event or trigger? Maybe we¡¯ll be forced to move after a certain amount of time.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Could that "Five years till forced return" stuff be related, maybe? That feels off. I shake my head slightly, dismissing the idea. We haven¡¯t been to another floor yet, so there¡¯s no logical place for us to return to. The only place that makes sense to return to is Earth. To what, a half-forgotten fucking life? I grit my teeth, the thought leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Discipline stirs and the voices in the pit quiet down. Dwelling on that won¡¯t help. ...There¡¯s also the ¡°Class¡± option. I can¡¯t pick one yet, which means there¡¯s probably a requirement I haven¡¯t met. Maybe it¡¯s tied to leveling up more, or maybe there¡¯s something specific I need to do to unlock it. Either way, it¡¯s something to keep in mind. The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that this system knows a lot about me. Too much, really. Every stat, every ability¡ªhell, even my thoughts feel like they¡¯re being cataloged. If someone is watching us, it wouldn¡¯t even have to be a person. It could just be some kind of automated system, quietly recording every action, every decision, every mistake. The idea sends a shiver down my spine and Madness cackles a bit, but I force it down. Doesn¡¯t matter. What matters is getting stronger. Speaking of strength, though, even the process of leveling up feels... strange. I get how it works in games¡ªkill monsters, gain experience, level up¡ªbut being trapped in this situation makes me want to dig deeper, to actually think about it logically. One possibility is that leveling up is just a reward handed down by the entity or system running this whole schizo-world. Like a cosmic trophy for killing a goblin. Maybe the system assesses my actions, decides I meet the criteria, and boom¡ªstat points magically granted. Another option, though, is harder to ignore. What if the stat points come directly from the goblin itself? It dies, and something¡ªits life force, energy, essence, whatever¡ªtransfers to me. That makes it less of a reward and more of a... transaction. The soul, though? I don¡¯t think¡ªor rather, I hope¡ªthat wasn¡¯t part of the deal. If it was, wouldn¡¯t I have felt something? Something like the Soul Well-induced bloating. Hmm, no use dwelling on it now, Reason insists and Discipline agrees. So I force my focus back on the present. Requirement #1... I need to go hunting. No rest for the weaklings, or however the saying goes. Literally all of the game-like Isekais I remember reading (and it''s oh so funny that I remember those but not my own fucking name) were competitions in all but name, so it was safe to assume that every moment wasted was another wink towards death. For a moment, I consider grabbing Jim. Having a shotgun-wielding buddy in the goblin-infested woods sounds pretty damn appealing, but... no. I shake my head. What I need right now is privacy. Testing out the ins and outs of my Fleshcrafting skill isn¡¯t exactly something I want an audience for. I¡¯ve got a sinking feeling it¡¯s going to be ugly. Hopefully, I¡¯m wrong, but I seriously doubt it. As my legs keep pumping, my body surges forward with a small burst of speed. Dexterity: 9 ¡ú Dexterity: 10. The change is subtle, but mid-sprint, it¡¯s impossible to miss. My feet hit the ground with more precision, each stride longer and smoother than the last. It¡¯s like my body¡¯s engine suddenly shifted into a higher gear. I¡¯m faster now¡ªnot just faster, but lighter, more controlled. The voices cheer and I grin despite myself. All hail the holy Grind. Its holy light shall purge the sin of weakness. Without slowing, I veer toward the edge of the clearing where my wooden spear lies half-buried in the grass. My hand snatches it up in one smooth motion, the wood cool against my palm. I don¡¯t even glance back at the others. My gaze locks on the tree line ahead, and I take off, the forest swallowing me whole. Chapter 8 - King After a while, I slow my pace, letting the adrenaline settle. Sprinting¡¯s great, but if there are goblins lurking around, I don¡¯t want to stumble into them half-blind and out of breath. Better to move carefully now, eyes sharp for any surprises hiding in the bushes or, hell, even the treetops. The forest around me looks... normal. Not the ominous, alien landscape I half-expected. The trees are just trees¡ªsturdy trunks, rough bark, and leaves that glint under the twin suns. No glowing plants, no whispers carried by the breeze, no faces leering at me from the wood grain. Honestly, it¡¯s kind of beautiful. Sunlight filters through the canopy, casting golden patches of light across the forest floor. Branches sway gently in the wind, rustling softly. I start circling the clearing where the half-bar lies, keeping it to my right. No sense wandering too far in¡ªgetting lost in this forest might as well be a death sentence. Sure, I could try marking trees to find my way back, but carving symbols into bark with a wooden spear? Not exactly efficient. If I¡¯m lucky, I might stumble across a stream or something. The group doesn¡¯t need water or food yet¡ªthe bar had plenty of supplies, even if it got cut in half¡ªbut give it three or four days. Without refrigeration, everything¡¯s going to spoil fast. After that, it¡¯s hunter-gatherer time whether we¡¯re ready or not. I step carefully over a tangle of roots, chuckling under my breath at the absurdity of it all. A nameless guy in pajamas, wearing a dead man¡¯s shoes, wandering through a perfectly normal forest with a bloodied wooden spear in hand. It feels ridiculous when I think about it. Then again, how sure am I that any of this is real? What if the whole ¡°isekai¡± thing is just a delusion? What if I OD¡¯d on something, got locked up in a padded room, and this is all in my head? The voices in my head tell me that¡¯s not the case, but isn¡¯t that exactly what a schizo would think? I snort, shaking my head, but the thought lingers. Madness laughs quietly in the corners of my mind. And, for some reason, I laugh too. It echoes through the forest, light and raw, bouncing off the trees like some kind of strange declaration. I glance down at the wooden spear in my hand, its tip still stained with dried goblin and human blood.A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Nah. This is real. Just as real as the guttural growl that suddenly echoes through the trees. I stop dead in my tracks, swiveling toward the sound. A wolf steps out of the shadows, its red eyes locked on me with a wild, feral hunger. Its fur is matted and gray, smeared with patches of dirt and blood, and the way it moves¡ªlow to the ground, with twitching, jerky movements¡ªscreams rabid. The thing is massive, easily two meters long from snout to tail, and it¡¯s clearly not here for belly rubs. Above its head, glowing faintly, I see: Wolf ¨C Lvl 2. ¡°Ohhh, who¡¯s a good doggy?¡± I coo, voice dripping with mock sweetness as I tighten my grip on the wooden spear. The wolf growls louder, hackles raised, saliva dripping from its bared fangs. I crouch slightly, bracing myself. The wolf¡¯s eyes flicker with a maddened gleam before it lunges at me, muscles coiled like a spring. It leaps, jaws snapping, claws outstretched, and spittle flying through the air. With a sharp thrust, I ram the spear forward while anchoring it firmly against the ground. The wooden tip catches the wolf mid-lunge, punching through fur, flesh, and bone with a crunch. Its momentum drives it further onto the spear and its teeth seek to tear my flesh, but I¡¯ve already thrown myself into motion. I twist my body and dive beneath its trajectory, slipping diagonally under its flank. Its hind legs rake through the air, claws grazing perilously close to my back, but they miss as I slide past. The movement is clumsy, driven more by instinct than precision, but it saves me from injury. The wolf collapses to the ground in a heap, skewered by the spear. Blood pours from the wound, pooling beneath its twitching body. A low, wet gurgle escapes its throat as its glowing eyes dim. It tries and fails to stand back up. ¡°Reach is king in the early game, Doggy,¡± I say under my breath as I praise my shitty goblin spear for being unexpectedly resilient. One of the voices in my head¡ªMadness, probably¡ªlaughs in agreement. Then I hear it. Another growl, low and guttural, coming from behind me. ¡°Teamwork¡¯s king too, Bitch,¡± I imagine the first wolf snarling in its death throes. I instantly dive sideways, but not fast enough to avoid the swipe of claws grazing my side. Pain flares as I roll across the forest floor, coming up to my feet in a defensive stance. When I turn, I see them. Three more wolves emerge from the shadows, their movements coordinated, predatory. Two are smaller, scrawnier, their glowing titles marking them as Wolf ¨C Lvl 1. The third is another Lvl 2, bulkier and more vicious-looking, its claws streaked with my blood. The smaller wolves snap and snarl, their eyes locked on me, while the larger one moves with a deliberate, confident prowl. Their fur is just as matted and filthy as the first one¡¯s, their bodies lean but wiry. They approach with about as much subtlety as an obese man spotting a steak. I glance down at the fresh tear in my shirt and the shallow bleeding wound on my side. My hand presses against it briefly, feeling the warmth of blood seeping through my fingers. My grin only widens. Chapter 9 - If I so much as sneeze The rush hits like a tidal wave, a mix of raw adrenaline and something deeper, darker¡ªa primal, gnawing excitement that pulses in my chest. It¡¯s not just the thrill of danger...it is the voice of Hunger. It wakes fully now, for it smelled a feast, roaring like a wildfire in my head, drowning out the other voices, consuming them whole. There are no words, for the Hunger knows them not. It only speaks through actions. The Level 2 wolf leaps at me, almost a mirror image of the first one. Its powerful legs coil and release, sending it hurtling through the air, claws outstretched, fangs bared. This time, though, there¡¯s no spear in my hands. Time slows. I can see the way its muscles ripple under its filthy fur, its jaws wide enough to snap through bone, its eyes wild and bloodshot with madness. Behind it, the other two wolves fan out, cutting off my escape routes with a pack¡¯s precision. Too bad for them¡ªI never planned to dodge. I pivot slightly, cocking my fist back, every muscle in my arm coiling like a spring. The wolf¡¯s trajectory doesn¡¯t change. It barrels toward me, claws swiping at my chest, fully committed to the attack, utterly unaware of what¡¯s coming. Everything happens at once. The claws rake across my chest, sharp and brutal, carving a deep gash through skin and muscle. Pain blooms instantly, but I don¡¯t flinch, don¡¯t falter. My fist rockets forward, faster than I¡¯ve ever moved before, and slams into the wolf¡¯s head with so little force that it would barely even bruise it usually. The effect is catastrophic. The flesh on its skull all but detonates under my touch, peeling away in a wet spray of gore, muscle, and fur. One of its eyes pops like an overripe fruit, liquefying on contact, while its jaw slackens in an instant, mid-snap. Blood erupts from the shattered wound in a torrent, painting the air red even before the body crashes into the ground. Before I can process it, the other two wolves lunge for me, jaws snapping toward my legs. My body moves on instinct¡ªI push off the ground and leap, twisting midair to avoid their snapping teeth. Dexterity earns its place as my favorite stat the moment my foot slams down on the head of the nearest wolf, its skull grinding against the dirt under my weight. The air is electric, and my muscles sing with the rush of adrenaline as I clamp down on the intoxicating feeling of control that whispers at the edges of my mind. Before the pinned wolf can recover, I bring my fist down in a brutal arc. The moment my knuckles connect with its body, the effect is immediate¡ªits flesh ripples unnaturally, as if the solid muscle and sinew beneath had turned to liquid. The wolf''s howl splits the air, high and agonized, as my hand plunges deep into its abdomen. It thrashes wildly, its jaws snapping at my shoulder in blind desperation. But the damage is done, and the shock of trauma overwhelms it¡ªits motions slow, jerky and uncoordinated. I don''t get the chance to finish it off. The last lvl 1 wolf barrels into me from the side, its full weight slamming into my chest. I crash to the ground with a grunt, dirt and blood smearing my back as the beast¡¯s claws dig into the already gaping wound on my chest. Fresh pain sears through me, sharp and biting, but I barely register it. There¡¯s too much adrenaline flooding my veins, too much of the Hunger still roaring in my skull. The wolf straddles me, its bloodied maw inches from my face. Its teeth gleam, jagged and yellow, saliva dripping in long, sticky strands as its jaws snap closer, aiming to tear my face apart. Its eyes would burn me if they could, its muscles straining as it presses its weight down on me, the claws at my chest grinding deeper with every passing second. But if the past 30 seconds taught me anything, it is that getting up close and personal with me is a bad idea.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. I let the Hunger guide me. It doesn''t take effort¡ªbarely even a thought. My hands, locked against the beast¡¯s chest to keep it at bay, begin to sink into its flesh as if pressing into wet clay. The wolf freezes, a flash of confusion breaking through its frenzy. Then I will it. The skin parts, the muscle shreds, the nerves sever, unraveling like thread beneath my touch. The light in its maddened eyes flickers, then goes out entirely, leaving only a lifeless weight atop me. Just like that. [You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 2] [You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 2] [You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 2] [You have defeated a Wolf - lvl 1] [Lvl 1 > Lvl 2] The notifications hover at the edge of my vision, faint and unobtrusive. I glance at them briefly as I push the heavy wolf carcass off me with both hands, its blood still warm against my fingers. Then I breathe. Slowly, deliberately, savoring the air as it fills my lungs. The Hunger ebbs, its deafening roar retreating to the recesses of my mind. The maddened grin I¡¯d worn during the fight fades alongside it, leaving only the calm clarity of reason. I glance at the mess around me¡ªthe skewered wolf, the one with its face obliterated, and the gutted one whose body still twitches faintly as its nerves fire their last. No satisfaction stirs within me at the sight of their deaths. Victory, though? That¡¯s different. The thrill of surviving, of winning¡ªit¡¯s electric, a euphoric rush that courses through my veins like pure caffeine. My chest rises and falls, my heart still hammering from the adrenaline, and I can''t help but feel...alive, even though I just courted death a little bit. The wolves themselves, though? No. Their deaths are just the byproduct of surviving, nothing more. If anything, it feels like a waste. They would have been perfect for honing my dexterity, especially now that permanent wounds will probably become more of a minor inconvenience than a lasting problem. Training methods need to evolve alongside circumstances, and I need to figure out smart ways to push my limits. I invest the three stat points from my level up without hesitation, dumping them into Constitution and feeling an almost imperceptible shift as it climbs to 10. I see that the fight had pushed my Dexterity and Strength up as well, bringing them to 11 and 7 respectively. Progress on all fronts, eh?Awesome. I feel a bit lightheaded though. A little dizzy. Am I forgetting something? I glance down, and oh. Yeah, that would do it. The cut on my chest is... not great, to say the least. It''s long, running diagonally from just under my left collarbone to the right side of my ribs, deep enough that it probably nicked a few veins. The edges are jagged, flesh gaping open, and blood streams freely, soaking my shirt and trickling down my torso. There are smaller cuts too, scattered across my arms and legs, but this one? This is the big one, the one threatening to make me take a very long nap. Judging by the dizziness, I¡¯m pretty sure I¡¯m suffering from hypovolemia¡ªblood loss¡ªand if I don¡¯t do something about it, fainting and dying in that order are in my immediate future. Well, now seems like as good a time as any to experiment, doesn¡¯t it? Madness whispers and I nod. I take a shaky breath and pinch the edges of the wound together, my fingers slipping slightly from the blood. It¡¯s messier than I¡¯d like, but it¡¯ll do. What if I were to... there we go. The flesh under my fingers softens¡ªwiggling unnaturally, almost as if it¡¯s alive. I watch as the edges begin to meld together, a few drops of blood-tinged pink liquid falling to the grass. Each drop hardens into something brittle the moment it lands, but I ignore it, focusing entirely on the task at hand. [Fleshcrafting - lvl 2 > Fleshcrafting - lvl 3] The notification flickers briefly in my vision, but I barely register it. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing, not really. The level-up suggests I should, but this is all instinct. I don''t really feel anything besides pain right now, so I can''t get any feedback, but I know the theory at least. Focus. First the blood vessels, to stop the internal bleeding. Then the muscle fibers. Finally, the skin. It¡¯s like molding clay with trembling, arthritic hands, in pure darkness, but when all you want is to press said clay together... The edges of the wound resist, sticky and stubborn. Well, it''s more like me being unable to control the flesh properly. With the wolves, the only command I had to give was -begone- and it worked wonders, but it turns out that fixing stuff is harder than breaking it. Who would have thought. Even so, slowly, the wound begins to knit. The process feels...alien, but familiar, like my own flesh is both an uncooperative material and an extension of myself. I can''t decide if I love it or hate it, but I know I will abuse it either way. It''s just too damn exploitable. When I finally let go, the result is... underwhelming. It looks like shit, frankly¡ªred, raw, and uneven, as if a child with safety scissors and a stapler decided to play surgeon. It feels fragile, too, like the whole thing could split open if I so much as sneeze. But it holds. Even as I stand and shift my weight, it doesn¡¯t reopen, only leaking a little. That¡¯s good enough for now. I take it as a win, grab the smallest wolf corpse by the scruff, retrieve my trusty spear, and start jogging back toward the clearing while whistling softly. That¡¯s enough adventure for the next... what, two hours? Maybe three. Now, I really, really, really want to do some testing. Chapter 10 - What happened here? I¡¯m about two minutes of walking away from the clearing when I stop and unceremoniously drop the wolf corpse to the ground with a thud. The body is still fresh¡ªtoo fresh. Blood pools beneath it, seeping out from the two gaping holes I made with my own hands: one in its torso, ragged and wide, and another in its neck, where I willed its life to end. Its eyes are half-closed, glazed over in death, and its mouth hangs slightly open, exposing bloodstained teeth. I wrinkle my nose. Gross. It¡¯s not like I¡¯ve gone soft or anything, but still... wolves. I like dogs, okay? There¡¯s something unsettling about this. Couldn¡¯t it have been goblins? They¡¯re annoying, ugly, and way easier to feel good about tearing apart. I sigh and kneel down beside the corpse, placing my hands firmly on its matted fur. For a moment, nothing happens. The stillness stretches, as I try to remember the feeling from earlier in as much detail as possible. The flesh starts to ripple under my palms, the motion subtle at first but growing stronger, like the surface of water disturbed by an unseen hand. Fleshcrafting is... weird. It¡¯s like flipping a switch in my mind, and suddenly I can move the flesh beneath my hands¡ªnot in a precise or detailed way, but enough to mold and shift it. I¡¯m not sure if this taps into mana, stamina, or something else entirely, but I¡¯m about to find out. I focus on the wolf¡¯s paw first. Nothing too complicated¡ªjust a small, controlled action. With my hand resting over it, I push with my mind, willing the flesh to respond. At first, the change is slow and hesitant. The paw twitches, then the muscle beneath my fingers shifts, distorting the natural contours. The fur ripples unnaturally, like a thin film of liquid is moving beneath it. I press harder with my thoughts, and the flesh bunches together, compacting into an almost deformed shape. Weird. Definitely weird. There¡¯s no heat, no surge of power that I¡¯d associate with magic¡ªjust this vague sense of effort, like trying to manipulate dough that resists your every move. I release the pressure in my mind, and the paw returns to its original state, though the fur is slightly ruffled. I close my eyes and try again, this time focusing on the wolf¡¯s abdomen. I want to know if Fleshcrafting provides any kind of sensory feedback, like feeling the internal structures or detecting temperature differences. The result? Static. It¡¯s like trying to hear whispers through a blaring radio, or staring at a blank canvas expecting an image to appear. I know something is happening¡ªI can feel the faintest sense of motion, like distant vibrations¡ªbut it¡¯s muddled, incomprehensible. It¡¯s impossible to tell if I¡¯m getting too much feedback or not enough. My thoughts flit between annoyance, curiosity, and sheer fucking awe but I force myself to continue. I keep my hands on the wolf¡¯s abdomen, mentally nudging the flesh. The muscle shifts beneath the surface, forming irregular bumps that settle and smooth out as I relax my focus. I try to "listen" to the changes, hoping for some clarity, but the sensation remains frustratingly dull. I try again and again and some minutes pass, but I feel so progress. So I move on to the next test. My hands flat on the wolf¡¯s chest, I press lightly, and will the flesh to move. It responds immediately, rippling beneath my fingers like a disturbed surface of water. So far, so good. Next, I pull my hands back, hovering just above the surface. Nothing happens. I focus harder, willing the change to occur. Slowly, the fur begins to shift, and the flesh beneath it trembles¡ªbut it¡¯s weak and sluggish compared to direct contact. I raise my hand higher, about an inch above the wolf¡¯s body, and try again. The response is even slower this time, the ripples almost imperceptible. Another inch, and the effect becomes so faint that it¡¯s practically nonexistent. Frowning, I lean forward, closing the gap between my palm and the wolf¡¯s abdomen by just a few centimeters. The reaction returns immediately. It¡¯s stronger now, but still weaker than when I was touching it directly. Conclusion: The further I am from the target, the weaker the effect. There seems to be an exponential drop-off for every centimeter of distance. I pause, taking a moment to assess my body. My chest still aches from the gash I patched earlier, but the pain is manageable. I don¡¯t feel any mental strain, even after several minutes of Fleshcrafting. My thoughts remain sharp, unclouded by fatigue. However, my stomach growls loudly, breaking the silence of the forest. Great. I try to connect the dots, but there are quite few of them. Is it hunger from the ability, or just the physical exertion of the day catching up with me? It¡¯s hard to tell. I haven¡¯t exactly eaten much since this whole ordeal began, so I can¡¯t rule out either possibility. For now, I¡¯ll just note that Fleshcrafting doesn¡¯t seem to sap mental energy. Physically? Maybe. But I¡¯ll need more controlled tests before I can be sure. Now for the fun¡ªand by fun, I mean disgusting¡ªpart. I already know Fleshcrafting works on living and dead flesh, but I want to be thorough. Kneeling beside the wolf corpse, I start with its fur and skin. My hands move across its matted coat, and the flesh yields beneath my touch like softened clay. It¡¯s gross, yes, but manageable. Next, I cut into the muscle tissue. My hand seems to work as well as any knife, and I press my fingers against the exposed red fibers. Again, the texture ripples and shifts under my command, as if the tissue itself is waiting for my guidance. I peel back layers of flesh to expose the abdominal cavity, grimacing at the stench. The intestines are slick and coiled tightly, glistening in the faint light. With some reluctance, I prod them. They respond as expected, twisting and compressing beneath my touch. The smell, however, is atrocious. I push past the wave of nausea and focus on the last test: the bones. Placing a hand over the wolf¡¯s ribcage, I focus on the rigid structure beneath the skin. It takes more effort, but I feel the bone shift ever so slightly¡ªa subtle crackling sensation as it responds to my command. It¡¯s not as malleable as the flesh, but it¡¯s not immune, either. Finally, I glance at the surrounding plant matter: leaves, grass, a fallen branch. I touch them, focusing intently, but nothing happens. Not even the faintest twitch. As expected. But when I inspect the wolf¡¯s stomach contents¡ªhalf-digested flesh and bone¡ªI find it¡¯s still moldable. Conclusion: Fleshcrafting works on both living and dead tissue, including bone and organ matter. Plant matter? Useless. Where do the limits lie, exactly? I don''t know yet, but I sure as hell will, eventually. I lean back, wiping my hands on the grass as best I can, though the stench clings stubbornly to my skin. ¡°Life¡¯s shitty sometimes,¡± I mutter, shaking my head. This was the grossest science experiment I¡¯ve ever conducted, but discipline doesn''t care. It has never been the type to mind small details when there is work to be done.
Twenty minutes in, and one thing is abundantly clear. I, unfortunately, can not create matter from nothing. I¡¯ve tried every trick I could think of¡ªfocusing harder, visualizing growth, willing new tissue to sprout into existence¡ªbut nothing works. No matter how much I push, I can only manipulate the existing flesh and bones. Apparently, while the laws of physics have taken a backseat in this "floor", some remnants of reality still linger. Like a ghost that refuses to pass on, the conservation of mass looms over my efforts. I suppose if I ever want to "grow" something new, I¡¯ll have to source it from somewhere else. On the bright side, I now know my limits. And limits, inconvenient as they are, can be broken, or at least worked around. Perhaps one day I¡¯ll figure out how to transmute tissues or even rearrange molecular structures. For now, though, I¡¯m stuck playing with what¡¯s already there. Alas, since I can¡¯t create matter, I might as well see how finely I can shape it.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. First attempt: muscle fibers. I focus on the wolf¡¯s torn foreleg, trying to isolate a single muscle fiber and adjust it. The result? Mixed success. Shitty as my feedback is, I can still somewhat, barely, almost sense the fibers as distinct threads in a larger bundle, but my control is clumsy. Moving one fiber shifts several others alongside it, like trying to pluck a single strand from a tangle of yarn. Second attempt: separation. I push harder, visualizing the individual threads pulling apart. Slowly, the fibers respond. A single strand wiggles free, stretching like a red piece of spaghetti under my mental command. Encouraged, I repeat the process on another part of the leg. This time, the movements are smoother. Observation: My precision is improving with every attempt, like learning to write with my non-dominant hand. It¡¯s awkward now, but I can already feel my control sharpening. Now that I know my level of control, can I do cosmetic edits? I start with the wolf¡¯s skin texture. Running my hands along its flank, I imagine the surface smoothing out, like polishing a rough stone. Sure enough, the fur retracts slightly, leaving a patch of eerily smooth, bare skin in its place. Then I move on to shaping. With a little effort, I mold the skin around its snout into a lopsided lump. It¡¯s ugly, but the wolf doesn''t complain since he wasn''t a vain creature, of that I am sure. Lastly, I attempt to change coloration. I focus on the pale gray of its coat, willing it to darken or shift hues. Nothing happens. No matter how hard I push, the color remains stubbornly the same. Conclusion: I can alter the skin¡¯s texture and shape with relative ease, but coloration is a no-go for now. Does biology as I know it still live? Are melanocytes the last bastion of normalcy, refusing to bend to the whims of the system? I laugh a bit, since the thought was quite funny, then I dig deeper¡ªliterally. Muscle manipulation proves straightforward. The tissues are pliable, responding to my touch like warm clay. I twist and knot them into grotesque shapes, marveling at how effortlessly they bend to my will. Blood vessels and nerves are trickier. They¡¯re finer, more fragile. Adjusting them feels like threading a needle with shaky hands. Still, after a few tries, I manage to reroute a cluster of vessels, redirecting them into a crude spiral pattern. Bone, however, is a nightmare. I press my hands against the wolf¡¯s ribcage, willing the rigid structure to shift. The bones resist, stubborn and unyielding, like trying to shape a rock with bare hands. But I persist, grinding my will against the resistance. Minutes later, I succeed¡ªbarely. Using some of the wolf¡¯s tail bones as raw material, I fashion a crude pair of antlers sprouting from its skull. They¡¯re uneven and jagged, but they hold their shape. I lean back, wiping sweat from my brow, and admire my handiwork. The wolf now looks like something out of a horror movie, with its smooth patches of skin, twisted muscles, and weird antlers.
A few more minutes pass, and the wolf corpse is now unrecognizable¡ªa formless blob of muscle, sinew, and bone. It looks more like an art project than an animal. I can¡¯t help but smile at my progress. The process feels oddly familiar, almost like coding or assembling a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece has its place, and it¡¯s my job to figure out how they fit together. I focus on attaching a bundle of muscle directly to one of the ribs which now protrude from the blob like hedgehog spikes. The process works¡ªkind of. The muscle adheres to the bone, but the connection is weak and flimsy. A gentle tug is enough to pull it apart. Conclusion: The issue isn¡¯t the ability itself¡ªit¡¯s me. I understand the structure of tissues in theory, but applying that knowledge in practice is harder than I expected. Without keeping the microscopic details of histology in mind, my creations lack the strength and cohesion they should have. This is something I¡¯ll need to work on. To test whether my alterations are permanent, I leave the corpse alone for a few minutes. While I wait, I drop to the ground and crank out a quick set of push-ups. Sweat beads on my forehead as I count each rep. It¡¯s oddly relaxing¡ªalmost meditative.
Five minutes pass, never to return unless I learn chronomancy or something. When I check the wolf again, everything is exactly as I left it. No degradation, no reversion to its original state. Observation: The alterations seem stable, at least for dead tissue. For living tissue? That¡¯s a test for another day. Preferably with a ¡°volunteer¡± that isn¡¯t me. Nah, just kidding. Reason screams at me to stop, but the thrill of discovery drowns out its protests. Madness has been patient until now, quietly guiding me through each step, but it¡¯s grown restless. It demands more. ¡°Start small,¡± I tell myself, though the words feel like a flimsy safety net. Even so, I begin with something simple¡ªmy nails. I focus on them, willing them to sharpen. The sensation is strange, like a tingling pressure building at the tips of my fingers. Slowly, my nails lengthen and taper into razor-sharp points. They look cool, but I quickly notice a problem: they¡¯re fragile. Without additional material, the same keratin has just been stretched thinner, leaving them far less durable than before. But nails are just keratin for all mammals, right? The thought sparks an idea. I glance at the wolf¡¯s dismembered paws and the claws still attached to them. One by one, I pry the claws free. They feel unnervingly light in my hands, like brittle shards of bone, but they¡¯ll do. Carefully, I press each claw against my own nails on my left hand, willing them to merge. The process is¡­ unpleasant. A sharp sting spreads through my fingertips as the foreign material sinks into my nails. Blood wells up around the edges, trickling down my hand in thin streams. I grit my teeth and push through the discomfort. Finally, the sensation subsides, and I raise my hand to examine the results. The nails on my left hand are now darker and thicker, with a faint, glossy sheen that catches the light. They seem much more solid, though I haven¡¯t anchored them to the bones of my fingers. The wolf claws have fused seamlessly with my own keratin, forming a hybrid that feels sturdier and sharper than before. I hold my hand up to the light, flexing my fingers. The edges gleam wickedly. ¡°Not bad,¡± I mutter. To test their durability, I rake my claws against the nearest tree. The bark splinters beneath my touch, leaving thin scars etched into its surface. The sight sends a shiver of satisfaction down my spine. Whoever said strength for the sake of strength is boring was certainly lacking in imagination. Observation: The process is...almost painless, and the results are promising. With more practice, I might even be able to strengthen the nails further. Testing healing is the next logical step, but... this is trickier. I¡¯ve been keeping an eye on the wound in my chest since the fight. It¡¯s still sore, but I¡¯ve noticed something strange: the edges of the gash seem to be knitting together faster than they should. Is it Constitution coming in clutch? Or did my stupid attempt actually work decently? To test further, I¡¯ll need to see if I can accelerate the process consciously. For now, I¡¯ll keep monitoring it. I glance at my sharpened nails and flex my fingers, feeling the latent potential buzzing beneath my skin. ¡°This is just the beginning,¡± I murmur. ¡°I''ll do more, so much more..." Alas, I suppose that can wait a bit. My stomach is becoming annoyingly loud, and it seems a visit back to the clearing is in order. I glance at what remains of what was once a wolf. The soul bead that had been condensing above it wobbles slightly, less substantial than what I saw with the goblin from earlier, even though the wolf had an equal level. Odd. Wolves must have smaller or weaker souls, or perhaps all animals simply condense less soul essence compared to sapient beings. Regardless, the moment I touch the small soul nugget, it vanishes like before, dissolving into my palm with a faint inward pull. The slight feeling of pressure, nearly imperceptible before, strengthens slightly. I haven¡¯t even taken a dump yet, so the feeling is once again unreliable. My grin widens at the thought. With my spear in hand, I begin walking back toward the clearing. My eyes dart from shadow to shadow, scanning for any signs of danger, but I let my thoughts wander¡ªcarefully, without losing track of my surroundings. Some questions will have to wait. For instance, does temperature, humidity, or other conditions impact my ability? Could I still mold burnt flesh, or does it lose whatever magical essence this power relies on? More experiments are needed. I chew over what I¡¯ve observed so far, trying to piece together a working theory. The ability feels... biological. Cellular, even. The tingling sensation when I mold flesh reminds me of neural feedback, almost like my nerves are "communicating" with the tissue. Maybe the ability works by hijacking cellular signals¡ªrewriting them, in a way. This would explain the proximity requirements. Could it be akin to epigenetic manipulation? A process that overrides normal gene expression to force rapid tissue remodeling? Or maybe it works on a deeper level¡ªdown to the cytoskeletal structures of cells. Microtubules and actin filaments rearranged at my command. The skill itself could be akin to a user interface for my puny human brain that can''t process that kind of data. That would explain the static feedback but there are many other holes to patch. Energy-wise, there¡¯s no visible mana glow, no spell circles, nothing. The process feels a bit raw, as though my body itself is fueling the changes. This makes sense, given the mounting hunger. I am 80% sure it increased unnaturally the more experiments I did. It could mean the ability relies on ATP consumption, burning through my caloric reserves at an accelerated rate. That would explain the lack of mental strain but increased physical exhaustion. As for scale, I seem limited to parts of an organism rather than its entirety. I suspect this might be tied to the density of nervous connections. The more complex and interconnected the system¡ªlike an entire living body¡ªthe harder it becomes to control cohesively. There are also potential risks which Madness would rather ignore, but my Reason isn''t quite that weak. While I haven¡¯t noticed any immediate signs of infection, it doesn''t mean it''s impossible to happen. Open wounds, especially those I''ve tampered with, could become breeding grounds for bacteria. But do bacteria still exist? They should, there are many more bacteria in the human body than there are human cells, but I can''t rely on assumptions from earth, so who knows? Maybe a high constitution makes them irrelevant. My lack of precision is also concerning. If I accidentally disrupt key cellular pathways¡ªlike apoptosis or immune responses¡ªI could end up with uncontrolled growths or necrosis, but this should be easier to manage than sepsis. The hunger could also be a warning sign. My body clearly has limits, and I have no idea what happens if I push beyond them. Organ failure? Auto-cannibalism? Best not to find out, eh? As I trudge back toward the clearing, I make a mental note to document all of this. A pen and paper would be ideal, but for now, my memory will have to suffice. My thoughts stray toward the tantalizing possibilities of more advanced experiments. If I survive long enough¡ªand if this ability continues to evolve¡ªthere¡¯s so much more I could achieve. First on the list? Microscopic observation. I¡¯d literally kill for a microscope right now. The changes I make are palpable, visible on a macro scale, but what about cellular-level transformations? Are the cells dividing, rearranging, or simply merging? Without a way to see the finer details, I¡¯m fumbling in the dark. The nails were a success¡ªa crude but promising proof of concept. But what about other tissues? Eyes, glands, even internal organs like kidneys? Could I graft a wolf¡¯s adrenal gland onto myself for a natural boost of adrenaline? The implications are mind-boggling. What¡¯s especially intriguing is the question of tissue rejection. Normally, the major histocompatibility complex (MHC) would ensure that foreign tissue is attacked by the immune system. Does this ability bypass MHC entirely? Or am I simply ignorant of subtle, delayed consequences? That''s gotta be fucking tested before I try it on myself. There''s a difference between madness and stupidity, after all. And then there¡¯s movement. Could I force the tissue to function even when it should not? For example, could I reanimate a severed muscle and make it twitch on command? If so, what are the limits to coordination and control? Could I build... something more? I don''t know, but now my short-term goal is clear. Practice until every alteration is consistent, precise, and predictable. Flesh would become a medium, a canvas, as natural to manipulate as clay to a sculptor. Also, find out how the fuck Soul Well actually works. A sharp, acrid sting fills my nostrils, and my nose twitches instinctively. My stride slows, confusion creeping in. Smoke. A lot of smoke. My pulse spikes as I sprint the last few dozen meters toward the clearing. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of red¡ªa flash of hair, barely visible through the trees. It¡¯s there for an instant, then gone, leaving me questioning whether I saw it at all. When I burst into the clearing, the sight makes me stumble to a halt. The half-built bar is a charred ruin, its skeletal frame crackling as flames consume what remains. Blackened planks crumble inward, the structure collapsing on itself. The air is thick with smoke and the cloying stench of burnt flesh. Bodies lie strewn across the clearing, some piled near the burning bar, others crumpled where they fell. Blood pools beneath them, soaking into the dirt and grass. Some are burned beyond recognition, others are riddled with bullet holes. No in-betweens. I stand there, frozen, spear gripped tightly in my hand, and I suppress the urge to burst out laughing. What the fuck happened here? Chapter 11 - Shadow of death I remember watching a burning building a few years ago, though my memories of the event are patchy. Some parts are hazy, distant, like fragments of a dream. I remember the people¡ªashen-faced and kneeling on the pavement, their expressions a study in despair. Some trembled in quiet fear, their losses mercifully finite: a home they could rebuild with insurance. Others were louder, their grief boiling over in sobs or angry cries, as they realized the fire had consumed years of savings and effort. But the worst were the silent ones. They simply stared into the inferno with hollow eyes, because what they had lost could never be replaced. That¡¯s the image that comes to mind when I see Jim. He¡¯s slumped on the grass, a whiskey bottle dangling loosely in his hand. His voice carries across the clearing in a half-slurred song, the melody wavering in and out of tune. ¡°Oh, the bottle¡¯s my friend, it don¡¯t ask me why, It don¡¯t care if I¡¯m broken, just keeps me dry. Raise a glass to the ashes, let the old world die...¡± The words trail off into a chuckle, rough and bitter, before he takes another swig from the bottle. As I approach, the scene sharpens: his shirt is torn and dark with blood, and a jagged gash runs across his temple. A few smaller wounds pepper his side, staining the grass beneath him with red. His shotgun is nowhere in sight. ¡°Yer finally back, yeh little shit,¡± he growls, slurring the words. He tilts his head slightly in my direction, the motion sluggish. His face is a mess of blood and soot, streaked with red and black like a poorly painted mask. ¡°Where the hell have you been?¡± I scan the surroundings as I walk over, keeping my steps calm and measured. It¡¯s too early to jump to conclusions. The air reeks of smoke and charred wood, and there¡¯s an unnatural quiet, broken only by the occasional crackle of embers. I lower myself onto the grass, sitting close enough that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to. For now, I don¡¯t. I just look at him. I sigh internally, Reason working overtime to analyze his posture, his glassy eyes, the way he clings to the whiskey like it''s his child. I simulate a few mental scenarios, trying to figure out the best approach. Let¡¯s start with something gentle¡ªmaybe an excuse to placate him, show a little fear but hold it together enough to seem reliable. Sprinkle in a metric fuckton of kindness. A full five-star social buffet. "J-Jim, I only went out for two hours! I was searching for some water, I swear¡ª" ¡°Huh? Who the fuck asked you? Do I look like I give a fuck?¡± he cuts me off, as he tips back another gulp of whiskey. "..." Okay? Okay. He''s probably concussed, so it''s not his fault, no? "Jim, come on! Please, tell me what happened here. Are there any people trapped underneath the rubble? Tell me so I can help!" He doesn¡¯t even look at me. He just starts singing again, his slurred ballad rising in uneven bursts. Great. He¡¯s further gone than I hoped. Time for a different approach. One he probably won¡¯t even remember, so who cares. I raise to my feet, adjusting my stance and hardening my expression. My voice turns sharp, cold. I grab his shoulders and yank him upright. It¡¯s easier than I expect¡ªhe¡¯s either lighter than he looks, or those points in strength are doing their job. I loom over him, staring into his bloodshot eyes. "What. Happened. Here." My voice is slow, deliberate. He doesn¡¯t even flinch. Instead, he chuckles softly, almost to himself. "Do you believe in God, sonny?" "..." Once again, I¡¯m thrown off balance. I can almost hear the sound of scribbling in my head. Madness was taking notes. Still, Reason pulls me back into focus. I give Jim a small shake¡ªnot too much due to his state- But I need something, anything useful before he faints.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Jim, where¡¯s your shotgun?" I shift gears to the only question I truly care about. It¡¯s clear by now I¡¯m not squeezing much intel out of him in this state. He stares at me with a look I can¡¯t quite place. It¡¯s unsettlingly familiar, like the one I catch in the mirror on a bad day¡ªhaunted, searching¡ªbut not entirely the same. "I do believe in God, sonny," he murmurs, ignoring the question entirely. My grip tightens on his shoulders, enough to hurt, or so I think. He doesn¡¯t react. "I¡¯m not the type to preach, y¡¯see," he continues, his voice slurring but oddly steady, "but as long as I can remember, I¡¯ve believed there¡¯s purpose. That we¡¯ve all got a role in the grand scheme of things. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want." He mutters the verse absently, his eyes unfocused. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." I sigh, my patience fraying, and drop him back onto the ground. He lands with a dull thud, looking as unbothered as ever. Without hesitation, he grabs the bottle of whiskey from the grass and takes another swig. I scan the clearing, my eyes darting to the corpses. None of them have shifted or stirred. There are eight total¡ªfive burned, three riddled with bullet wounds. Judging by the collapsed structure, there might be more crushed beneath the rubble, but there¡¯s no way to confirm that. We were 25 just four hours ago. Now? At best, there might be 15 survivors left besides me. Is this a battle royale? Did someone figure out a way to benefit from killing others? My gaze flickers back to Jim, sprawled out, singing softly to himself. His wounds tell a story¡ªone that suggests he was more participant than bystander. Did he shoot those three? If so, why? Was it self-defense? Good ol'' insanity? Retribution? And where the hell is his shotgun? I can''t say for sure, but I decide that Jim is harmless enough right now. I lose nothing from revealing part of what I can now do. I kneel beside him, letting out a slow breath. "All right, fine, old man," I mutter under my breath, more to myself than to him. "I¡¯ll play along." Reason is unusually silent, which is never a good sign. When it doesn¡¯t offer commentary, it¡¯s because the way forward is murky, illogical, or riddled with traps. That thought nags at the back of my mind as I press my fingers against one of Jim¡¯s stab wounds. His torn flesh is warm, sticky with blood, and slack from exhaustion. I focus, drawing on the skill I¡¯ve been honing. The muscles under my fingertips respond as I will them to knit together. It¡¯s like teasing out frayed strings and weaving them into place. The tissue reconnects in patches, growing taut as the fibers rejoin. [Fleshcrafting - lvl 3 > Fleshcrafting - lvl 4] Jim doesn¡¯t flinch. He doesn¡¯t even blink as I work. His calm is unnerving¡ªmost people would be screaming or, at the very least, freaking out over their body knitting itself back together. Instead, he just sits there, his bottle tipped lazily toward his lips. That, at least, I can appreciate. I move to the gash on his head, pressing the edges together with one hand as I coax the skin to seal. Blood seeps down my fingers, pooling in the creases of my palm as I work, but it''s a familiar feeling by now. The injury closes unevenly at first, like a badly zipped jacket, but I adjust it until it smooths out. "You know why smart people like me believe in God, sonny?" he says suddenly. I stay quiet, my focus narrowing to the shallow puncture wound just above Jim¡¯s ribs. The edges of the cut are uneven, jagged¡ªalmost like someone stabbed him with a fork. I''m almost sad I left, it would have been hilarious to watch that. Jim doesn¡¯t seem to notice my lack of attention, his voice rolling on, slurred but with a surprising clarity to his thoughts. "Because God," he begins, pausing for another long gulp of whiskey, "gives meaning to one''s life. Because without Him, we¡¯re left with¡­ well, this." I glance at him briefly, and he gestures weakly around the clearing, his arm swaying like a pendulum. "We¡¯re afraid of living in a world where nothing matters," he continues, his voice rising slightly as if addressing an unseen crowd. "A nonsensical universe, where life¡­ doesn¡¯t matter. Where we don¡¯t matter." I let his words wash over me, barely listening. "But this place, this goddamn place?" he goes on, his voice dropping into a low, bitter growl. "It¡¯s the antithesis of God. Spatial distortion, huh? What the fuck does that even mean?!" He barks out a laugh, harsh and humorless. "Is this supposed to be divine design? God¡¯s supposed to create meaning, order, purpose. But this¡ªthis isn¡¯t the work of God. This is¡­" He pauses, his face contorting in thought. "This is either proof that Nietzsche was right and God¡¯s been dead a long time, or that He¡¯s a giant, celestial shit-stain," he concludes, punctuating the statement with a lazy wave of his whiskey bottle. I finish mending the fork-wound and wipe the blood off on the grass, saying nothing. "Anyway," Jim mutters, leaning back as if his speech had exhausted him. He raises the bottle one last time. "Thanks for fixing my cuts, doc. Want some booze?" He lobs the bottle toward me without looking. I catch it out of the air with one hand. The glass is warm from his grip, still quarter-full. Without breaking eye contact, I toss it over my shoulder, watching as it arcs into the still-burning flames. The bottle shatters on impact, scattering shards of glass and igniting a sharp flare as the alcohol burns away. Jim watches the firelight dance for a moment, then shrugs. "You little shit," he mutters, shaking his head. "That was Macallan 18. Do you know how hard it is to find decent Scotch nowadays?" "..." Ah, fuck it. If he wants theatrics, I''ll give him some. "You know you''re going to hell for killing those three innocent people," I say, my voice deliberately shaky, as though I¡¯m barely holding back some righteous indignation. The hardest part is keeping a straight face, but damn, if this works... Jim snorts, a gurgling sound that might be a laugh. "Five people," he corrects, punctuating it with a burp. "And they deserved it. Drunk bastards tried to force themselves on some girl or sum shit. Lass burned one of ''em alive. They didn¡¯t take kindly to that. I stepped in. They didn''t take kindly to that either, so I shot a few. Balance restored, eh? Too bad the bar collapsed though..." My lips twitch, but I force myself to keep a neutral expression as he continues. "But this... this just proves my point," he mutters, gesturing vaguely at the destruction around us. "People creating fire outta nothin¡¯? That shouldn¡¯t happen. Can¡¯t happen. It¡¯s all a farce, kid. None of it¡¯s real. So excuse me," he says, tipping his chin defiantly, "if I don¡¯t wanna play along." I don¡¯t respond immediately, letting his words settle as I sift through them. The pieces fit together easily enough. It¡¯s a story as old as time and as boring as dirt, but still, makes me glad I keep my own lust locked deep into the pit of useless voices. I glance around, scanning the clearing again. Nothing stirs but the faint crackle of dying embers and the occasional hiss of collapsing wood. No one seems to be coming back for now. No pyromancer girl. No drunken would-be rapists. No hapless bystanders stumbling back. They fled chaotically from what Jim is saying, so they probably got lost. Sucks to be them, huh? Poor bastards never stood a chance. Still, there¡¯s one glaring loose end. "All right, Jim, so you''re not going to hell. But if one of the bad guys had gotten their hands on the..." Wait... Spatial distortion. He mentioned Spatial Distortion earlier, didn¡¯t he? I assumed one of the others told him they had a skill like that but what if... The alarm bells in my head go from a faint ringing to a full-blown symphony. I whip around, my stomach dropping as my eyes lock onto Jim. The shotgun¡ªhis goddamn shotgun¡ªis back in his hands, the barrel already pressed firmly between his teeth. His bloodshot eyes meet mine, glassy but resolute. The gunshot echoes across the clearing, deafening and final. Chapter 12 - I am me Jim''s corpse collapses to the ground with a dull thud. I watch in silence, the echoes of the gunshot fading. He had already made his choice before I even returned, huh? The look in his eyes¡­ I didn¡¯t understand it then, but now it feels clearer. The pit in my mind stirs, the voices within rustling like caged beasts sensing weakness. They claw at the edges, begging for release. Stress? Fear? Is that a shadow of guilt? Discipline doesn¡¯t waver though. It smothers their pleas, deaf to the honeyed promises they whisper. Madness stands guard, cackling as it slams the lid shut, setting the edges aflame for any foolish enough to try. I am still staring at Jim¡¯s body. Half of his head is missing. I turn away, but the scene is just as shitty. The clearing reeks of failure¡ªburned and broken bodies, the acrid scent of death hanging in the air. Maybe it¡¯s my fault for leaving them alone. Maybe it¡¯s their fault for being incapable. Maybe it¡¯s the alcohol¡¯s fault for simply existing. But no. I do not care. I will not care. I will not make excuses, for that would imply a desire avoid guilt. Why would I avoid a shadow? I bury it all beneath my resolve. My path is my own, and I am me, no matter the circumstances. Everything that happens¡ªevery moment, every step¡ªI will grind into whetstones. Jim¡¯s last words echo faintly in my mind, fragments of drunken conviction lingering like the smoke in my nostrils. I wave them away, not because they¡¯re meaningless. If anything, they likely hold some shard of truth.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. But I stopped chasing universal truths long ago. I have no desire for answers from gods or systems or anyone else. I¡¯d much rather forge my own, even if I am the only one who believes it. I ignore the gnawing protests of my stomach as I step toward Jim¡¯s remains. His body, emits a faint wisp of soul mist¡ªso little that it¡¯s already beginning to fade. Curious. I kneel and pick up the shotgun from where it landed after Jim¡¯s final act. A bloodied 12-gauge. The stock is chipped, and the only barrel bears scratches deep enough to suggest years of use¡ªor misuse. On the grass nearby, three shells lie scattered, their brass glinting faintly in the dying firelight. I pick one up, turning it between my fingers. "Buckshot" is stamped on the side. The grooves in my hand are sticky with blood, and the casing feels heavier than it should. I don¡¯t need a manual to know what this does; Jim¡¯s lack of a head was a graphic enough demonstration. I glance back at the shotgun. Its chamber is open, gaping like a maw. I examine the bloodied stock and the slick, metal barrel. It feels foreign in my hands, lighter than I expected. Still, I flip the shell over once more and line it up with the chamber. The first attempt is shit, the shell slipping from my fingers and hitting the dirt. I sigh, wipe my hand on my pants to clear some of the blood, and pick it up again. This time, I shove the shell too far to one side, the metal grinding against the edge of the chamber. I pause, tilting the shotgun, and try again with a little more care. On the third attempt, it clicks into place, the dull sound of success oddly satisfying. The shotgun feels more balanced now, but still strange. I snap the barrel shut with a sharp clack and glance at the safety. Off. Good. I raise the shotgun to my shoulder experimentally, feeling out the weight and angle. The stock digs into my shoulder, the barrel wavering slightly as I adjust. Calmly, I shift my grip, leveling the sights at an imaginary target, my finger hovering just above the trigger. It¡¯s not perfect, but it¡¯ll do. A sound cuts through the stillness, jagged and shrill. Screeching. My head snaps up toward the tree line. ¡°Oh, what took you so long?¡± I mutter, voice dripping with sarcasm as I spot the intruders: a group of ten goblins, their beady eyes glinting hungrily. The smoke must have drawn them here. Nine of them rush forward, brandishing crude weapons¡ªstone daggers, splintered clubs, and sharpened sticks. Their movements are chaotic, animalistic, but the intent behind their snarls is clear: blood. But it¡¯s the tenth that holds my attention. It stays back, its intelligent eyes fixed on me. It grips a gnarled staff made from twisted wood, and even from here, I can sense something off about it. Its gaze bores into mine, and despite the small horde closing in, that one feels like the real threat. [Goblin Shaman ¨C Lvl 3] ¡°Fuck you, Jim,¡± I mutter under my breath, clutching the shotgun. "You couldn¡¯t have waited a few more minutes, could you?¡± Chapter 13 - I deserved this one I dart out of the clearing and into the forest, weaving through the trees as the small horde of green humanoids gives chase. Their shrill cries echo around me, driving me forward. Five level 1s, three level 2s, and two level 3s¡ªI counted them all as they came. Most of them are slower than me, their short legs no match for my stride. But not all of them. One keeps pace, its scrabbling feet growing louder by the second. A glance over my shoulder confirms what I already suspect: it¡¯s the other level 3, not the Shaman. Great. I can feel the strain in my legs, the hollow ache in my stomach, but oddly enough, there¡¯s a strange kind of clarity in the adrenaline. Jim¡¯s shotgun is warm in my grip, a reminder of his final mess. Way to ruin my mood, Jim. Couldn¡¯t you have blown your brains out in a bush or something? Truly, old people have no sense of decency. A root catches my foot, and before I can recover, the ground rises up to meet me. I land hard, grass and dirt pressing into my face as the air escapes my lungs in a wheezing grunt. I don¡¯t even need to look to know the goblin is on me; his high-pitched laughter says it all. I roll over just in time to see him leap, twin daggers gleaming in his hands. To him, I must look like cornered prey, helpless and easy. His grin splits his face as he descends, confident in his kill. Somewhere behind him, there¡¯s a shout¡ªmaybe the Shaman ordering him back, maybe a cry of warning. It doesn¡¯t matter. Our eyes lock. I pull the trigger. The shotgun roars, and the buckshot tears through his head like paper, reducing it to a crimson salsa. His body collapses mid-air, crumpling like a sack of potatoes before landing in a heap beside me. The forest is silent for a beat, save for the ringing in my ears.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. [You have killed a Goblin - Lvl 3] [Lvl 2 > 3] Poor guy never heard of baiting. I put all my newly earned points into Constitution without hesitation, bringing it up to 13. The sharp ache in my legs fades slightly, and my breathing evens out. I force a grin as I push myself up. The goblins are still screeching, their cries tearing through the forest, but I¡¯ve kept my lead. With the fastest goblin dead, it should be manageable to lose them. A little chaotic, sure, but manageable. Then I hear it. A terrible, piercing sound splits the air, unnatural and ear-splitting. Every instinct in my body screams at me to move, and I obey without hesitation, veering hard to the side. Boom The ground behind me erupts. Dirt, leaves, and splinters of wood spray into the air as a shockwave slams into my back, hurling me against a tree. My body hits the trunk with a crunch, and pain bursts through my ribs and shoulders. I tumble to the ground, dazed and gasping. Move. Move! I roll awkwardly, every movement sending fresh jolts of agony through my body, and drag myself behind the nearest tree. Boom The next explosion is so close the pressure rips me off the ground entirely. For a moment, I¡¯m weightless, tumbling end over end through the air like a discarded toy. My ears ring so loudly I can¡¯t hear anything else, and blood fills my mouth as the metallic tang spreads across my tongue. But spinning in the air, I can see everything¡ªthe treetops swaying in the shockwave, the horizon painted in oranges and greens, and above it all, the twin suns hanging in the sky. They look almost peaceful, serene. For the briefest second, I forget the goblins, the explosions, even the burning pain in my chest. The suns look so... bright. I can¡¯t remember the last time I just stopped to admire them. The world tilts violently as gravity reasserts itself, and my head slams into something hard. Then everything is wrong. I¡¯m on the ground. No, I¡¯m still falling. Wait¡ªam I upright? The world spins and lurches as though it can¡¯t decide which way is up. Sounds are muted, distant, as though I¡¯ve been shoved underwater. I taste blood in my mouth. Why am I on the ground? My thoughts stumble over themselves, fractured and confused. I blink at the dirt and grass in front of me, trying to make sense of...what? My body screams as sensation floods back in. Every nerve feels flayed, raw. Something wet and sticky trickles down the side of my face, mixing with the blood and drool already dripping from my mouth. A voice snickers in the recesses of my mind. At least you still have the shotgun, it says. The shotgun? Yeah, and the ammo too... I lift my head to look at my left hand. But it¡¯s not there. Where my hand should be is a jagged stump, blood gushing out in quick, panicked spurts. I laugh, though it¡¯s more of a choked wheeze. My head is pounding, my body barely moving, and all I can do is lie there in the dirt. "Fine, Murphy," I croak, grinning through the pain. "I deserved this one." Chapter 14 - The most beautiful flute I lie sprawled on the ground like a discarded puppet, limbs bent at wrong angles and blood pooling beneath me. Through half-lidded eyes, I watch the goblins approaching, their movements unhurried and self-assured. Their chattering is sharp and nasal, like particularly annoying birds. Despite the dizziness, I manage a half-smile. Cocky little bastards, aren¡¯t they? Even dazed, I have enough presence of mind to deal with my bleeding stump. With the faintest thread of concentration, I seal and reroute the radial artery, halting the blood flow. The work is crude¡ªmore slapdash than a child¡¯s macaroni art. Muscles twitch beneath the makeshift patch job, misaligned and tense. Definitely not getting a surgeon¡¯s license anytime soon, huh? I shift my attention to the smaller gashes crisscrossing my shredded body. My legs? Broken in four places¡ªand that¡¯s the better-looking one. Fixing those would need finesse, time, and two good hands. I¡¯ve got none of those. Instead, I settle for another slapdash attempt at stitching together some tendons and nerves, the biological equivalent of duct tape. It¡¯s crude, messy, and probably a terrible idea, but it¡¯s enough to make movement a theoretical possibility. I didn¡¯t exactly have time to practice working on myself beforehand¡ªsomething I deeply regret as I fumble around inside my own tissues. Still, it looks like I can feel my flesh much more clearly than I could feel the wolf¡¯s earlier. That¡¯s...something, I guess. The goblin shaman doesn¡¯t even glance at me. It¡¯s too busy standing over the corpse of the one I shot, muttering guttural nonsense at the body. Its staff glows faintly with an unpleasant green light, and for a moment, I wonder if I should be worried. After all, I''m around 90% sure he was the one who fucked me up. The other eight goblins aren¡¯t exactly grieving their fallen comrade. Their chittering sounds almost gleeful, like they¡¯ve already written me off as a non-threat. Really? Just because I¡¯m lying here looking like roadkill doesn¡¯t mean I¡¯m out of the game. Show some respect for your elders... Actually, while they might be looking like 12-year-olds , they could actually be much older, no? They all look the same to me though... Even the one of them that decides it¡¯s time to finish me off. It steps closer, brandishing a jagged rock knife that looks like it¡¯s seen better days¡ªor maybe not, considering it¡¯s made of literal stone. The creature¡¯s clothing is little more than patchwork leather scraps covering its waist and chest. Its skin is marked with swirling light blue patterns, deliberate and uniform. "Nice tattoos, little guy" I wheeze as it crouches beside me.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! "Are you the chef of the bunch?" I croak, amused as the goblin kneels in front of me, stone knife poised. It doesn¡¯t answer¡ªhow rude. Instead, it jabs the knife into my calf, clearly intending to carve me up like wild game. I grimace but manage a weak smirk, shifting my mangled stump just enough to nudge its side. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll take that as a yes,¡± Channeling my will, I grab hold of its flesh¡ªnot the skin, but the tangled network beneath. The connection feels slippery, maybe because I was used to fleshcrafting with my arms. It''s a bit like groping through a viscous pool, but it works, the flesh obeys, and that''s all that matters. The goblin stiffens as something inside of it breaks. It slumps forward, collapsing against me, but its eyes dart wildly in their sockets. ¡°Oh, good,¡± I murmur, raising my good hand to prop it up. "You can still move those. That¡¯ll keep your buddies off me for a bit." I whisper. What exactly did I just do? Who knows? Maybe I ruptured his spinal chord, and I''m sure I cut more than a few nerves. The sensation is hard to parse like always, but something essential is gone now, melted into something useless...to him at least. I push deeper, reaching further into its body with a will that feels both alien and mine. Its organs¡ªliver, kidneys, intestines¡ªbegin to rupture and collapse like overripe fruit. Blood vessels burst, and its cartilage softens to a gelatin. The creature¡¯s breathing grows shallow, a rattling sound that doesn¡¯t quite escape its lips. Its skin remains pristine though, save for a few unnatural bulges and sloshes beneath. The chittering of the other goblins fades into a distant buzz as I focus, the rest of the world shrinking to this one task. A notification pings faintly in my mind. I shove it aside. I¡¯m too busy. The goblin¡¯s insides have become a slurry. Brownish-green blood oozes from small tears in its body, pooling over me in sticky rivulets. My control is far from perfect, and the lacerations spread like cracks in fragile porcelain. Then, my nausea surges. I feel vomit rising, hot and bitter, but I force it back down. My vision blurs further, the effort taking more out of me than I expected. Still, I don¡¯t stop. The goblin slumps further, its form collapsing inward as its bodily structure turns to sludge. The other goblins turn out to be more distracted then I expected yet far less than I hoped. Barely thirty seconds since I began working, they start shouting and scrambling toward me. One hurls a spear that sails through the air, embedding itself in my shoulder. Not too deep thought, maybe because of my high constitution. I try to laugh¡ªit¡¯s funny, really¡ªbut blood and bile surge up my throat, cutting the sound short. I choke, gag, and spit onto the ground. But it¡¯s done. The goblin corpse slumped over me collapses entirely, its sagging skin splitting open like an overfilled sack. Entrails spill onto me in a wet, steaming heap. The world narrows, quiets, then detonates into a blinding rush of adrenaline. Pain fades to a distant hum, drowned out by a single, furious mantra repeating in my skull. Good job, motherfuckers. Good. Fucking. Job. You just made skip the testing phase. With my good hand, I push against the ground. The newly-melded bones in my legs groan in protest, some even splintering again, but the crucial ones hold¡ªfor now. The goblin¡¯s insides cling to me as I rise. Its guts and flesh slide down my body in ribbons, tangling. Sticky veins coil like serpents around my arms, dripping blood onto the grass. Bones, jagged and shattered, meld with my skin¡ªmakeshift casts locking my limbs in place. A brain fragment dangles precariously from what might be a tendon. An eyeball squelches as it presses against my cheek as bits and pieces of what was once a goblin fall to the ground. The stench is unbearable. The horror is unimaginable. I step forward, my movements jerky and uneven. The disgusting, pulsating armor constricts around me, goblin muscles tightening against my own. My legs threaten to buckle, the fragile bones inside crying out with every agonized step. But I smile. Oh, I smile. My gaze snaps to the closest goblin, frozen in place, terror etched across its malformed face. I lunge toward it, unsteady but relentless, and reach out. My fingers brush its flesh, and with a thought¡ªa pull¡ªit rips away in a wave of shrieking agony. ¡°One...¡± The word drips from my lips. A growl follows, low and feral. It could¡¯ve been a goblin¡ªor maybe it was me. The next goblin isn¡¯t so paralyzed. A dagger stabs into my back, piercing the flesh-cloak but stopping just short of my spine. My arm twitches as I kick backward, grazing the goblin¡¯s leg. Even the slightest contact is enough. Half its thigh tears apart, a bloom of shredded meat. Its scream is so shrill it could hurt one''s eardrums, but to me, it sounds like the most beautiful flute. Chapter 15 - The one who laughs last Two spears stab toward me, aimed straight for my skull. I drop, slamming onto all fours like a dying beast. The impact rattles my frail bones, pain flashing white-hot up my limbs, but I shove off the ground anyway. A reckless, clumsy leap sends me forward. My femur cracks, grinding against itself. The sound is drowned out by my own snarling groan. I crash into a goblin, my hand finding its shoulder, my fingers digging in. I pull, and its body tears open like rotted fabric. There¡¯s nothing poetic about it¡ªjust skin and muscle ripping free in chunks, a spray of steaming blood painting the air. The goblins shriek in their guttural tongue. It¡¯s maddening. Deafening. But it¡¯s nothing compared to the wet, bubbling noises coming from me. The meat draped across my body ripples, twitching and spasming as if it¡¯s alive. Veins pulse erratically, spilling rivulets of fresh blood down my back. Strips of intestine slither and constrict over my arms, tightening with each move. I don¡¯t know how I¡¯m still standing. I don¡¯t know why my legs haven¡¯t just collapsed entirely. My ribs are poking into my lungs, my chest feels like it¡¯s caving in, and my heart¡ªwell, I think it¡¯s still beating. But who cares? Another step forward and a big chunk of green skin falls from the cloak with a splat. I barely notice as I rise, trembling, to my feet. The meat cloak writhes again, almost pulling me upright itself. Strands of tendon loop over my knees like braces, holding the shattered bones together long enough to shuffle forward. My smile stretches wider than it should, splitting the corners of my lips as a result of my imperfect control. Blood seeps into my teeth as I bare them. The goblins freeze, staring. I laugh, or at least try to. A gurgling sound escapes instead, mixing with the mist of blood that¡¯s started to seep from the cloak. It spreads around me in a thin, red fog, turning the air thick and damp. They falter. I see it in the quiver of their legs, the hesitation in their grips on their crude weapons. One goblin tightens its hold on a spear, only to step back a moment later, its resolve crumbling. The shaman isn¡¯t faring any better. The creature has collapsed, crawling on its belly, shaking like a leaf in a storm. It mumbles incoherent prayers or curses, the faint glow of magic flickering uselessly in its trembling hands. "COME ON!" My voice tears out of me, more howl than words, sharp and broken like my body. More blood bubbles in my throat, forcing me to cough between jagged laughs. Pain blooms anew as my vision tunnels and one eye goes dark, leaving me half-blind. A fresh surge of adrenaline¡ªor whatever is keeping me upright¡ªfloods my veins, drowning out the panic of sudden blindness. One goblin takes a step back, the fear written all over its green, face. "Not so bold now, are you?" I rasp, though I doubt it understands. I lunge¡ªif it can even be called that. A broken leap, more animal than human, lands me on top of the cowardly thing. Its brittle frame collapses under my weight, the snap of bones mingling with its panicked squeals. My hand closes around its chest, and with a thought, everything inside it liquefies. The sound is soft and beautiful¡ªa wet, gurgling crunch that echoes as its cries cut off mid-scream.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. But the others? They¡¯re running. Four of them remain, carrying the shaman as it continues to mumble and make frantic hand signs. Its wide, bloodshot eyes never leave mine, though. They¡¯re locked on me, filled with a terror so pure I almost pity it. Almost. I try to chase, but my legs betray me, crumpling under the strain. Fine. If I can¡¯t run, I¡¯ll crawl. Dropping to all fours once more, I begin to move. My one good hand digs into the earth, clawing forward, while my legs drag behind me. The cloak of flesh ripples and spasms, bits of meat peel away, sloughing off my frame in wet clumps. I don¡¯t care. Broken jumps and half-steps push me forward. The goblins are getting further away, their frantic movements kicking up dirt and grass as they flee. But I¡¯m learning. A soft chime rings in the back of my mind, but I shove it aside. I don¡¯t have time for that. The meat cloak adapts under my will, shifting to suit my needs. More muscles tighten and wrap around my fractured bones, holding them in place like splints upon splints. Foreign tendons knit into mine, melding, pulling me upright once more. Much of the remaining flesh falls away, lightening my burden, while sinew and cartilage reinforce what¡¯s left. I run. Not fast, not gracefully, but it¡¯s enough. My heart pounds, faster than it should, forcing blood through veins that have no business working. My punctured lung expands and contracts, dragging in ragged breaths as I will it to function. My remaining eye blurs, but I keep it locked forward, focused on the shaman. The agony is overwhelming. Every step is a symphony of pain, every breath a knife in my ribs, every thought a scream in the void. But I¡¯ve never felt more alive. I want more. I need more. I fall and I crawl. I get back up and keep running. I fall again. And again. And again. And then I sprint. The ground blurs beneath me as my body burns, breaks, and rebuilds itself in real time. Every step brings me closer. The goblins begin to run faster, but it doesn''t matter. I''m gaining. The shaman twists its head to look back at me, its gaze a raw mixture of fear and hate. The jagged edges of its sharp teeth glint in the sunlight as it bares them, and a guttural growl¡ªdeep and venomous¡ªrises from its throat. "Good" I rasp, my lips tearing at the corners as I grin wide. Every step feels like a gamble, my muscles tearing with each desperate movement. My good hand claws at the ground, pulling me forward when my legs falter. The stump of my other arm hits the dirt uselessly, and I will the flesh to mold, to grow¡ª knitting myself back into something functional. The voices are back, murmuring just below the threshold of thought, guiding the fleshcrafting. Cartilage snaps back into place. Bone fragments shift and realign, reinforced by layers of pulsing goblin tissue. My heart races like a war drum, and I shove it harder, faster. The blood in my veins is no longer just mine. The shaman chants, its guttural cries almost as desperate as its subordinates whom struggle to carry it. A rock, clutched tight in the shaman¡¯s shaking hands, begins to glow. Pale, sickly light seeps from the cracks in its surface, growing brighter with every whispered word. It throws the stone in my direction. Fast. Unearthly fast. I barely see it¡ªthe way it tears through the air, faster than my broken body should be able to comprehend. But I don¡¯t need to see it. My remaining senses tingle, and something in the back of my mind whispers warnings. I duck, barely evading the projectile. His aim is good, but predictable. His wrist telegraphed the motion from the moment he raised his arm. I didn''t see it though, my vision in nowhere near that good anymore. Feel? Did I just feel it? one of the voices whispers, but I shove the thought aside. The rock hits a tree behind me. BOOM The familiar shockwave roars, a concussive blast that flattens the undergrowth and sends splinters flying past me. What remains of my cloak ripples violently, but I stay upright. My legs threaten to give out, but I don¡¯t stop. Because I have already won. I lunge forward, ramming into the goblins like a battering ram. They tumble with me, their bodies snapping under the force of impact. One goblin screeches as I crash into it, my hand clawing at its flesh. The moment I touch it, its skin sloughs away like wet paper, its muscle and sinew stripping under my command. It gurgles, choking on its own screams before crumpling into a husk. The others fare no better. Their screams fill the air, high-pitched and desperate, before fading one by one. Blood pools around us, seeping into the earth. The shaman tries to crawl away, its chanting now incoherent, but the last remains of my cloak lash out like a predator, constricting around its limbs. I laugh. And laugh. And when it¡¯s over, only my laughter remains. Chapter 16 - Like a worm I¡¯m running through the forest, a hundred billion goblins on my heels, their supersonic rocks cutting through the air like vengeful meteorites. I duck, weave, punch them all until their tiny heads pop like overripe fruit. When the last goblin falls, I leap straight to the moon¡ªtheir moon¡ªthe root of their infestation. It explodes beneath my fists, shattering into stardust. That¡¯ll teach them. Now, where the hell did that cocksucker Jim... Ping The sound yanks me out of my delirium. My dream fades, replaced by a notification hovering in the darkness of my mind. [Side quest completed] Please choose one of the following rewards: Flint and Steel Fire Starter Crossbow Short Sword Pouch of Dried Rations Portable Leather Flask Small Hand Shovel Cloak Mace Longbow Light Armor Leather Bracers Chainmail Hauberk Full Plate Armor Shield Spear Dagger Halberd Greataxe Greatsword Scale Armor Padded Armor Bedroll Clothes Waxed Canvas Tarp Sling Warhammer ... The list goes on. Hundreds of items, randomly thrown together like a medieval yard sale. No categories, no rhyme or reason¡ªjust a mess of weapons, tools, and junk. Seriously? Ads in my dreams now? Can¡¯t a guy sleep in peace? I try to swipe the notification away, waving my hand lazily in the air. Except... my hand doesn¡¯t move. It doesn¡¯t fucking exist. Confusion flickers in my foggy mind. I open my eyes¡ªor try to. The world is dark and sticky. It feels like I¡¯ve been shoved into a watery sack and crammed into the trunk of a car. My body feels crushed and constrained, soaked in something viscous. Panic begins to rise, until I notice the steady stream of air entering my lungs. It¡¯s not coming from my nose¡ªit¡¯s clogged, useless. Instead, it flows through a strange tube melded to my teeth, like a snorkel. Revulsion churns in my gut, but I force myself to stay calm. Thank you, Reason, truly. Oh. Right. That. The chaos in my head finally starts to settle. Disjointed thoughts fade, replaced by fragments of memory: the isekai, the fire, those goddamn goblins. And now¡­ quests? Seriously? What even qualified as a ¡°side quest¡± ? I sure hope it¡¯s because I killed those goblins. Screw those guys. The list of rewards is still hovering, a chaotic mess of options I can¡¯t be bothered to scroll through. I know what I need. Weapons, armor, all that gear¡ªit¡¯s useless in the long run. What I need is water. Fresh water. A simple bucket of it, specifically. My throat feels like sandpaper wrapped in razor wire, and the thought of drinking anything else right now is nauseating.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. I select a "bucket of fresh water". The blue window disappears. Nothing else happens. Of fucking course, nothing happens. I mentally smack myself, clearing away the last bits of lingering dizziness. Right. Where would the system even put the damn bucket? It¡¯s not like I¡¯m lying around in a nice open space right now. My mind drifts, dredging up hazy fragments of what happened after I killed the last goblins. It¡¯s blurry but a few details stick. I remember hitting Level 4 and dumping all my points into Constitution¡ªanything to stop my body from breaking down completely. Then came the immediate problem: foreign tissue merging with mine. The risk of death from a cytokine storm was too high to ignore. Then there was the... hydration issue. I had to drink something, and fast. Goblin interstitial fluid¡ªbasically salty water¡ªwas the least disgusting option available. Blood and lymph are saltier, which equals worse. I drank until I could think straight, then forced myself to eat. As much goblin flesh as I could stomach and then some. Afterward, I dug a hole¡ªsomehow. Wrapped myself in a goblin-skin sack for insulation. Fashioned a hollow bone tube and fused it to my teeth to breathe through. And then I slept. And now I woke up...and I feel like boiled diarrhea. Every inhale drags cool air through the tube, scraping against the edges of my teeth. The exhale isn¡¯t any better¡ªhot, stale air rushing back up and out like it¡¯s fleeing a burning building. It¡¯s uncomfortable, vile even, but it works. It¡¯s fine. I remind myself: I¡¯m alive. That¡¯s what matters. My body feels like it¡¯s been tenderized, every nerve screaming in its own language. I feel the urge to move, to tear myself free from this cocoon of filth. My body isn¡¯t listening. It¡¯s locked in place, buried under layers of dried flesh and goblin skin. Fuck no, this isn''t fine. Why the hell did I do this to myself? The answer comes unbidden. Cool, logical, unrelenting. To stay hidden from predators. Where the fuck could I hide other then underneath the ground? Panic tries to rise, clawing at the edges of my mind. Discipline smashes it back down, wielding Reason like a club. I breathe deeply through the tube, the taste like rot and salt. My thoughts settle into a rhythm with each inhale, each exhale. I could let it go, drift back into the darkness of sleep. A tempting thought, but the voice of Discipline demands action. I almost tell it to shove it and crawl back into unconsciousness. Almost. ¡°Status,¡± I call mentally, the word clear in the chaos of my mind. The system obeys with a flicker --- [Name]: @????????????#?????????????????$????????&????????????(??????????????)?????? Difficulty: Hard Floor: 1 Time left until forced return: 4y 363d 23h 59m 30s Lvl 4 Strength: 10 Dexterity: 13 Constitution: 18 Mana: 3 [Primary Class]: Unavailable [Sub-class]: Unavailable Skills: Soul Well - lvl 2 Fleshcrafting - lvl 6 Flesh Perception - lvl 1 [Skill Points: 0] [Stat Points: 0] Twenty hours of sleep. Figures. I stare at the timer and shake my head. Was the side quest just to survive 24 hours? Who knows? Who cares? The stats went up more than I expected, somehow, so that¡¯s a nice surprise. Fleshcrafting¡¯s level jump makes sense, too. Considering how much I relied on it, anything less would¡¯ve been disappointing. What stands out the most, though, is Flesh Perception. I fucking knew I felt the shaman moving his wrist. The words gleam in my mind, sparking a hundred theories. When did it unlock? Was it tied to something specific I did, or was it the accumulation of all my fleshcrafting antics? Can I force new skills to emerge by repeating actions long enough? Are skill levels reflections of my current capabilities or actual power-ups? Probably a mix of both. The questions multiply, burning through the haze of exhaustion. I need answers. Experiments. Research. But not here. I do give the skill a test run though. It¡¯s similar to Fleshcrafting, I realize as I inspect my body woth it, but without the "shape and mold" parts. Just observing what''s going on. The static remains, buzzing faintly in the back of my mind as I don''t actually see my tissues through visual stimuli, but now there¡¯s clarity¡ªa translator between me and the chaotic signals that I''m getting. If Fleshcrafting was like trying to sculpt clay in a pitch-black room with progressively steadier hands, then Flesh Perception is watching that same clay, in the same darkness, but with a flickering candlelight somewhere in the distance. It¡¯s not perfect, but it¡¯s a hell of a lot better. And what I see¡ªwhat I feel¡ªis an unmitigated disaster. Boy, did the old me prioritize efficiency above all else. First of all, I have no legs. None. Not even a hint of thighs¡ªjust an abrupt end at the coccyx. My arteries and veins have been rerouted with surgical precision, and it¡¯s clear why. Blood pressure. I didn¡¯t have enough blood to fill all those vessels, and goblin blood wasn¡¯t an option. That nearly killed me during the fight, triggering immune reactions so violent I came within a hair¡¯s breadth of two aneurysms. Then there¡¯s my left hand¡ªor, more accurately, the stump where it used to be, but that''s old news. But the worst part? I¡¯m not just skin and bone¡ªI am skin and bone. The goblin muscles and tendons I¡¯d fused with my own had to go. Keeping them meant risking death by immune response, so they were excised. Completely. Somewhere along the way, I must¡¯ve decided that preserving my skeletal muscles intact was a luxury I couldn¡¯t afford, and I took a generous rejection margin. Sure, my vital organs¡ªkidneys, liver, heart, brain¡ªare still intact. That¡¯s great and all, but I¡¯m pretty sure if anyone saw me right now, beggars would be lining up to donate food out of pity. Hell, starving kids in third-world countries would pat their stomachs and say, ¡°At least I¡¯m not that guy.¡± I try to laugh, but the bone tube melded to my teeth cuts it short, turning it into a wet gurgle. I choke a bit, the taste of the goblin bone sharp and sour on my tongue. Does it matter? No, of course not. None of this matters. Because I fucking won. Everything else¡ªmissing limbs, shredded muscles, the fact that I¡¯m currently encased in a goblin-skin cocoon like some deranged caterpillar¡ªis irrelevant. I won, and I¡¯ll do it again. Again, and again, and again. That small, feeble part of me whispers that I could rest a bit longer. Just sleep, just recover. That part is weak, and I stab it mentally with the jagged knife of my will. No more rest. No more weakness. I need water. The thirst gnaws at me, pushing everything else aside. That¡¯s motivation enough. I focus on moving, and my body obeys. The first thing I do is wiggle. It¡¯s awkward, but it works. I shift my torso side to side, grinding the goblin skin sack against the earth. The sensation is disgusting, like dragging damp leather against my raw flesh, but the edges begin to tear. Piece by piece, the cocoon loosens. My bones creak as I twist and strain, my single arm pulling at the confines while my body undulates like a worm. The stench of goblin flesh fills my nostrils, though the tube in my teeth does little to help. I take one big gulp of air and will it to detach. The bone obeys easily. The sack splits, and I claw my way upward, dragging myself out of the shallow hole I¡¯d buried myself in. Dirt clings to my skin, mixing with the gore of goblin remains that still coat me. Every inch I pull feels like a mile, but eventually, my head breaches the surface. The light hits me first, blinding and unrelenting. I squint, groaning softly, but I keep moving. I have wasted enough time. Chapter 17 - Far from useless The forest looks eerily identical to how it was before I went under. The same dense canopy, the same warped trees clawing at the twin suns hanging motionless in the sky. I squint upward, trying to gauge time, but it¡¯s pointless. The suns don¡¯t budge, and there isn¡¯t a cloud in sight to shift the shadows. I wonder, briefly, if night exists here at all, but I suppose I will find out eventually. I sip from my new bucket, savoring the cool water as it slides down my throat. Each drop feels like salvation, and I¡¯m careful not to spill a single one. If it came down to it, I¡¯d break my other arm before wasting a drop. Heh... fuck me sideways... Alright. Enough. Let¡¯s see what I¡¯m working with. "Quest window," I say aloud, my voice hoarse but steady. A translucent screen flickers into existence before me, obedient as ever. [Floor Quest] Objective: Stay alive for 30 days Rewards: - Entrance to the second floor - Access to Community - 1 Skill Point - 5 Stat Points [Side Quest] Objective: Stay alive for 24 hoursYou might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. Rewards: Gear of your choice (Completed) --- I frown, staring at the timer ticking down. A thirty-day survival challenge, huh? Straightforward, I like that. On the other hand, it¡¯s don¡¯t die for a month, and I barely scraped through the first day. Still, I might¡¯ve just been unlucky. A bad roll of the dice. Then again, luck doesn''t have to be something you leave to chance, is it? It¡¯s something you can seize, forge with your own hands. If the dice hate you, you throw them in the trash and get loaded dice instead. ¡°Alright,¡± I mutter, stretching my single arm with a wince. ¡°Let¡¯s see how far I can push this.¡± I feel calmer now, more in control, as my gaze sweeps over the scattered remains of the goblins. I ate some of the flesh and had their skins repurposed into my crude sleeping bag, but bits and pieces still remain. It¡¯s quite surprising that no scavengers have come to feast . The smell alone should have summoned a pack of wolves¡ªor worse. But no, the forest is silent, save for the occasional whisper of leaves in the still air. First things first. I glance at the raw stump where my left arm used to be and focus, willing it to move. The sensation floods my mind¡ªa cocktail of phantom limb syndrome and the sharp awareness granted by Flesh Perception. It¡¯s mesmerizing, beautiful, but I push the awe aside. There¡¯s no room for distraction, unfortunately. Not when I¡¯m this vulnerable. Instead, I get to work. The remaining bone, cartilage, and bits of muscle of the arm are far from useless. I visualize their potential, breaking them down in my mind as I manipulate the flesh. Slowly, meticulously, I begin to craft. The process is fascinating, even with the limitations of my crude understanding. I weave strands of muscle and cartilage together, layering them over fragments of bone to create a crude rope-like structure. I aim for something akin to a tentacle or a tongue, with flexible movement and tensile strength, though my rushed execution is far from perfect. Blood vessels thread their way through the whip-like appendage, and a few nerve endings scatter across its surface, enough to provide rudimentary sensation. The skin stretches over it, uneven and patchy, but functional. It¡¯s long¡ªabout two meters¡ªand thin, with a spindly, almost grotesque appearance. The segments of bone create slight ridges along its length, while the uneven musculature gives it a twitching, unnatural look. It¡¯s far from elegant, and the motion physics elude me entirely. I don¡¯t have the time or knowledge to design proper muscle groups in five minutes. But it will serve. To test it, I swing the appendage toward the nearest piece of goblin¡ªa splintered leg lying a few feet away. The whip-hand connects with a wet thwack, and I will the skin to latch onto the surface. With a slow pull, I drag the leg closer, the appendage trembling with the strain but holding firm. Good enough. I smirk despite myself, glancing at the grisly pile of flesh and bones scattered around me. It¡¯s Lego time. Chapter 18 - What the fuck is homeostasis Walking is hard. No, really. It¡¯s a symphony of movement involving more than 50 major muscles working in tandem, orchestrated by billions of neurons firing through intricate neural pathways refined over years of trial and error. Running? What the fuck is that? Babies spend months¡ªsometimes years¡ªlearning to walk, wobble, and run without toppling over. So, when someone is forced to do it manually, micromanaging each twitch and contraction, screwing up is inevitable. The voice of Reason assures me this is normal as I faceplant into the dirt for the seventh time. I don¡¯t even bother catching myself with my good hand anymore. It¡¯s better to let gravity win, to savor the earthy taste of dirt¡ªit adds just enough spiteful determination to fuel my next attempt. What went wrong this time? Did I bend the knee too much? I press my mind inward, activating Flesh Perception, and direct my attention to what I¡¯ve lovingly named the Goblin Suit Mk0. It¡¯s nothing complicated, really¡ªjust a complete disregard for conventional biology. I recovered my leg bones from where I¡¯d buried them alongside myself, scraping out as much of the necrosed marrow as possible before reattaching them to the stumps of my femurs. What I ended up with were literally bare bones for legs. Those alone didn''t cut it, though. Movement needs muscles, so I scavenged goblin scraps and what little remained of my own flesh to craft the essentials: quadriceps, hamstrings, calf muscles and the like. Of course, the tissue I used was long dead. Rigor mortis had set in, and the blood had clotted into unmovable sludge, but magic doesn¡¯t seem to care about such trivialities. Guided by my will, the muscles still contracted, as if to spite the universe which deemed them lifeless.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. No oxygen, no ATP, no carefully balanced temperature or pH? Who cares? What the fuck is homeostasis anyway. I might¡¯ve laughed out loud a few times during the process. Watching logic unravel...If drugs make someone feel like this, I can totally understand becoming addicted. Even so, biology and physics refused to die completely, clinging on like a stubborn ghost. The rules wouldn¡¯t bend entirely to my will. I couldn¡¯t merge the dead tissue directly with my living body since that was... well... suicide. So, I had to get creative. Methodically, I layered tendons upon tendons and muscles upon muscles across my skin, wrapping them over my abdomen and torso like a patchwork of belts. These improvised constructs were connected to the femur and served as replacements for the hip abductors and gluteal muscles which I couldn¡¯t use properly despite having parts of them intact. It was basically a beggar''s exosuit, but every layer of dead tissue was carefully arranged to serve its function. With Flesh Perception guiding me, I shaped and twisted the goblin scraps until the suit fit snugly¡ªtoo snugly, in fact, in some places... Dark veins crisscrossed the surface like exposed wiring, with bulging knots where muscles fused at odd angles. It wasn¡¯t pretty, but it...kinda worked? The goblin skins, meanwhile, were layered over the suit and myself, tanned into makeshift armor. The rough texture itched against the seams of my torso, but that was the least of my problems. Lo and behold, voices in my head, System Gods or whoever the fuck is reading my mind. I am the the bone of my sword, The Architect of Flesh, Bone is my Frame, and Blood is my Ink. I have molded countless forms, Unbound by Life, yet unclaimed by Death. Have endured Agony to shape this Vessel, Yet these hands will never know Completion. Hahahaaa... Jokes aside, I probably look like a cannibal straight out of the Outlast games. My left whip-arm twitches sporadically, a faint, jerking motion that would¡¯ve been concerning if not for the lack of pain. It''s probably fine. The less fine part, however, is the lack of neural feedback from the dead flesh. Without any sensation or reflexes, complex movements are slow and imprecise. Every step demands conscious effort, so my top speed hovers somewhere between "barely moving" and "slow as fuck", and that''s only when I manage to remain upright for more than 2 minutes. I groan, pushing myself upright again, the voice of Discipline snarling at me to keep going. Any thoughts of rest were vetoed before they could even take root. Sleep is for later¡ªmuch later, once I¡¯d leveled up a bit and gained a few more points in Constitution. The suit had taken just half an hour to make, but in that short time, Flesh Perception had leveled to 2. Small victories, eh? Chapter 19 - Yesterday Of course, there is a stream less than five minutes away from where I crawled out of the dirt. Naturally. Why wouldn¡¯t there be? It¡¯s not like I had to drink goblin smoothie and spend my precious gear choice just to get water or anything... The stream is small but lively, threading its way through the forest floor like a thin, shimmering ribbon of silver. Sunlight dances on its surface, and it burbles softly, a sound so peaceful that it almost feels like an insult to my battered, stitched-together body. I scan the area briefly. Just trees and underbrush, rustling with the occasional whisper of the wind. Nothing alarming. With a shrug, I crouch by the edge of the stream and carefully dip my only hand into the cool, clear water. It trickles through my fingers as I bring a small handful to my mouth. The taste is clean. I pause, waiting a moment to see if I¡¯ll drop dead. Hmm... No burning sensation in my throat, no stomach cramps. So far, so good. As I wait to see if the water is poisoned or not, I let my eyes wander, taking in the scenery. The rustling leaves are a strange kind of background music, lacking the song of birds and the chittering of insects. I can''t quite decide if it¡¯s eerie or soothing. Then I feel it¡ªa faint tickle at the edge of my awareness, like the brush of a feather against my mind. My head snaps to the side, and there it is. A deer. It stands maybe twenty feet away, partially hidden among the trees. Its sleek coat is a rich brown that darkens toward its legs, and its ears twitch at every sound. Wide, liquid eyes stare back at me, filled with that curious mix of caution and innocence only prey animals seem to have. [Deer - Lvl 1] The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The moment our eyes meet, it bolts, hooves thundering softly against the earth as it vanishes into the underbrush. ¡°Damn,¡± I mutter, watching it go. Honestly, I¡¯m relieved. As tempting as food might be, the idea of killing something so painfully adorable just to eat it makes my stomach churn more than the thought of only eating raw goblin meat for a month. Hell, I¡¯d probably eat Jim¡¯s corpse before I¡¯d lay a finger on that deer. I can¡¯t help but grin. ¡°I¡¯ll catch you one day,¡± I vow under my breath. ¡°And when I do, I¡¯m going to pet the hell out of you.¡± The deer, of course, is long gone, oblivious to my declaration. I glance back down at the stream, watching the water ripple and sparkle under the twin suns. It seems poison-less enough, and honestly, even if it isn¡¯t, I¡¯ll take my chances. I cup my hand again and drink greedily, letting the cool liquid spill down my throat in messy gulps. I also fill my bucket which had been partly depleted. When I¡¯ve had my fill, I pause, savoring the sharp chill that lingers. Then, without much thought, I lower myself into the stream. The shock of the cold hits me like a slap, but damn if it doesn¡¯t feel incredible. The water barely reaches my knees, but it¡¯s enough. Enough to scrub off the grime, the dried blood, and the reek of death clinging to me. I don¡¯t bother removing the GMKS0 (goblin makeshift suit 0). Getting it off would be more effort than it¡¯s worth¡ªbut I do peel away the goblin skin I¡¯ve used as a covering. The leather-like layers are stiff and greasy, but I work them free until I can reach my actual skin. Clothes? Never heard of them. This is the Garden of Eden as far as I''m concerned, at least until I find another survivor I can borrow stuff from. My hand works in rhythmic scrubbing motions, dragging through layers of muck and dried gore. The water darkens around me as the filth sloughs off, swirling downstream in ugly ribbons. It doesn¡¯t bother me. Not the mess, not the cold, not even the fact that I¡¯m essentially marinating in a soup of my own filth. That''s the very definition of a bath. But the voices are restless. I am far too vulnerable right now, after all. A Goblin Shaman could 360 no-scope me and that would be game over. With one last rinse, I push myself upright, the cold stream water dripping from flesh and pooling at my feet. My reconstructed legs tremble slightly under the weight, but I seize control of them, flexing the sinew and cartilage I¡¯ve stitched together. ¡°Move,¡± I mutter to myself, forcing each step to obey me. My balance wavers, but I steady it easily enough. As I take a deep breath, the bloating sensation in my chest flares again, sharp and insistent. I grimace, pressing a hand to my ribs out of reflex, though I already know there¡¯s nothing physical causing it. Flesh Perception confirms it. No organs swelling, no clots, no trapped air. This isn¡¯t a physical problem. No, it¡¯s something else. Most likely tied to the souls I¡¯ve been absorbing. Could the Soul Well be full? That¡¯s the only explanation that makes sense, though I can¡¯t say for sure. The system is about as helpful as a brick to the face when it comes to sparing information, it seems. What happens when the Well overflows though? Do I risk bursting like an overstuffed sack? Is this just another stepping stone in the long, winding road of ¡®figure it out as you go¡¯? Reason dictates that I need answers, and I need them yesterday. I sigh, rolling my shoulders as I take another step. ¡°Well then,¡± I mutter under my breath, the faintest smirk tugging at my lips. ¡°Let¡¯s prepare" Chapter 20 - In wolves clothing The wolf leaps toward me, a hulking beast the size of a compact car, its fur a mottled gray streaked with dirt and blood. Its amber eyes gleam with a predatory intelligence that feels almost human. My whip-hand lashes out, a blurred arc of pale sinew and bone, but the wolf twists mid-air, dodging with fluidity. It lands lightly on its paws, the impact barely rustling the forest floor. The movement is almost elegant¡ªgraceful in a way I wouldn¡¯t expect from a creature this big. Smart cookie, this one. The fact that the rest of its pack dropped dead the moment they brushed against my flesh tendril probably gave it something to think about. The wolf growls low and guttural, a sound that vibrates through the air like a drumbeat. It doesn¡¯t waste time posturing. Instead, it charges me, weaving in a zig-zag pattern that makes it a blur of fur and fangs. Too fast. My dead legs are sluggish, unable to keep up, and there¡¯s no dodging this time. I smile and let out a breath as it slams into me like a battering ram. The force drives the remaining air from my lungs, and I hit the ground hard, the impact rattling through my ribs until they creak under the weight of the beast pinning me. Its jaws are already clamped around my neck, the sharp sting of teeth breaking both goblin and human skin. Blood wells up in hot rivulets, trailing down my collar. Too bad for the wolf that it¡¯s already dead. The moment its body touched mine, its brain turned to pulp. Its growl died mid-snap, the light in its eyes fading as its body went limp, slumping heavily against me. ¡°I know, I know. It¡¯s cheating,¡± I whisper, coughing against the pressure on my throat. ¡°But who told you to attack me?¡± With a grunt, I shove the carcass off me, using my one good hand to push it aside. Its body thuds against the forest floor, and I sit up slowly, rubbing at the indentations its teeth left on my neck while sealing the skin and the broken veins underneath. The next hour slips by in a flurry of work. Fresh flesh is far more pliable under my control than the rotting goblin meat, so most of the old tissue gets discarded. Thank you, GMKS0, you piece of trash. Wolf muscle, dense and taut with power, replaces the slack, decayed fibers I had been relying on. They will need to be replaced as well in a day or so, but that''s a problem for future me to deal with. I also take some bones, extracting them from the biggest wolf carcass. Each femur and rib is stripped clean of excess tissue and shaped into plates, their surfaces smoothed where they¡¯ll press against my body. Using the marrow channels, I embed small slivers of goblin bone to create interlocking seams¡ªcrude but effective hinges that allow the plates to shift without breaking. These pieces are then layered into the goblin leather covering. For my head, I make a helmet. The wolf skull is sawed down and reshaped into a bowl-like structure, reinforced by fragments of its spine to add rigidity. Thin strips of goblin leather are fastened inside as a lining, minimizing discomfort and preventing the bone from digging into my scalp. The end result is functional, if grotesque, with jagged edges and a faint smell of decay. The whip-arm gets the final touch. I channel the limited self-tissue I¡¯ve regenerated into reinforcing the tendons and musculature of the whip. The bone core is extended slightly, and overlapping thin sheets of cartilage are woven around it for added flexibility and tensile strength. More thin sheets of skin are wrapped over the entire structure, reinforced here and there with rings of wolf bone on top of the skin. While far from perfect, the whip now feels sturdier and responds more fluidly to my will. By the time I finish, my legs move with a newfound ease, each step less clumsy than the last. The restructured muscles contract and relax with something approaching natural rhythm. The additional plates on my armor make me feel a little less vulnerable, their weight offset by the slight boost in structural stability. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. That¡¯s the good news. The bad news? I¡¯m starting to feel the strain. I didn''t realize this during my first experiments, but Fleshcrafting, for all its wonders, comes with a price. Even with my high constitution bolstering me, the constant mental effort takes its toll. The fatigue is subtle at first¡ªa lingering ache in my temples¡ªbut it compounds, gnawing at my focus. I somewhat expected this, but come on, I slept so fucking much... I clench my jaw and push through. Rest can wait. I¡¯m almost done with my preparations and every second counts. Next, I turn my attention to the three wolf corpses I left mostly untouched. Their bones are fused and repositioned in a way that allows them to stand upright, resembling scarecrows. Their hollow eyes are staring blankly into the surrounding forest. The effect might be morbid but it should be functional¡ªa perimeter meant to distract predators long enough for me to assess the situation with either Flesh Perception or my own eyes. Digging a shallow hole takes less time than before. It¡¯s not as deep as the grave I used earlier¡ªjust enough to lay down while remaining ready to spring into action at a moment¡¯s notice. The thought of burying myself six feet under again makes me a bit nauseous, but it''s understandable. That level of immobility would be suicide if I were to be discovered, so I won''t do it again carelessly. I take a long, deliberate breath through the palm-length bone snorkel I crafted earlier, calming my mind as I cover myself with dirt. Ever since I woke up from my near-comatose state a few hours ago, things have been... strangely peaceful. Too peaceful. No matter how I frame it, I basically wasted around sixteen hours by sleeping through the bulk of Day One. After something like that, I¡¯d expected a harsher punishment¡ªmaybe a swarm of monsters or some escalating catastrophe to drive home the point that wasting time might as well equal death. And yet, today¡¯s haul so far consisted only of this lone wolf pack. No towering beasts, no freakishly fast goblins, no unrelenting ambushes. Just wolves, and not even particularly strong ones at that, even if they were bigger than the ones I killed yesterday. I¡¯m not exactly wishing for the return of supersonic death-projectiles, but after coming so close to dying, this stretch of calm feels unnatural. My voices scream that it¡¯s the quiet before the storm. Maybe I¡¯m overthinking it. Maybe it¡¯s the system¡¯s way of easing people in, ramping up the difficulty slooowly, to give us time to adapt. Or maybe it¡¯s something worse¡ªa cycle of calm before chaos, where every few days everything explodes into violence designed to weed out the complacent. I push my back against the packed earth of my pit, my hand-whip twitching involuntarily as my mind races. Paranoia? Maybe. But better than being caught off guard. Time will tell if my suspicions are right. For now, I¡¯ll take this peace for what it is: a chance to prepare. So, buried in the ground, I shall meditate. I take another deep breath, directing my focus inward. The sensation in my chest is difficult to describe¡ªcylindrical, almost solid, yet radiating a faint, persistent pressure throughout my torso. It¡¯s strange, alien, and annoyingly intangible. Beyond the dull ache it produces, I can¡¯t interact with it in any meaningful way. Fleshcrafting, in comparison, is instinctive¡ªa natural extension of my thoughts, like flexing a muscle I¡¯ve never known was there. But this? If this is the so-called Soul Well, it¡¯s completely unresponsive. Still, I refuse to be discouraged. I was able to condense the Soul Mist of the Dead just fine, and the skill even leveled up once, so it''s clearly doing something. I center my mind and attempt to grasp the feeling. Again and again, I probe at the intangible presence, seeking any reaction, any sign that my efforts are bearing fruit. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to this skill earlier. But to be fair, Fleshcrafting has more than proven its value. It¡¯s tangible, versatile, and, most importantly, effective. The Soul Well didn¡¯t protect me when the goblin shaman¡¯s spell nearly erased me from existence. It didn¡¯t help me kill said shaman or keep me alive during the aftermath. Why waste time fumbling with an unknown tool when I could sharpen the weapon already in my hand? I don''t have anything against betting per se, only against losing. All in all, relying on unknown odds in the middle of a monster-infested forest seemed like something only a delusional person would do. That was my logic then, and I stand by it. Even now, I¡¯d still be testing Fleshcrafting¡¯s limits if not for this persistent, suffocating pressure in my chest. But the time for delay is over. The Soul Well clawed its way to the top of my priority list, so there''s no use for what-ifs anymore. I focus harder, bracing myself against the rising frustration as I feel nothing but the void pressing back. It¡¯s like grasping at smoke in the dark¡ªelusive and formless. Ten minutes pass, then thirty, and soon I lose track of time altogether. My determination doesn¡¯t waver. I press on, probing the boundaries of this unseen presence, clawing at it with my will. And then, without warning, something clicks. A shock runs through me, as though the pressure in my chest has burst wide open. The world around me vanishes, replaced by a yawning, infinite darkness. And I am falling straight within. Dark sh*t This is getting pretty boring, actually. I can¡¯t feel my body; it¡¯s like all sensation has been sucked away. I might or might not be tempted to tear my eyes out, not that I could see much of anything anyway. Thankfully, I have no hands, so the urge moves along, burrowing in a deep, dark corner of my mind. Maybe my status sheet is also there, somewhere, because it sure as fuck it doesn''t appear when I wish for it. How long have I been in the dark, can someone please tell me? Even the voices went quiet after a while, and if I still had a mouth I''d be screaming profanities by now. I¡¯m probably still alive¡ªmaybe even surely alive. I didn¡¯t do anything outrageous, did I? I simply tried using my skill. I mean, I can control flesh for fuck¡¯s sake¡ªwhy would some other ability decide to kill me the moment I tried to understand it? It just doesn¡¯t add up. Then again, maybe trying to make sense of all this was a logical fallacy in itself¡ªand now I¡¯m dead because I overthought it. That would really suck some heavy, hairy balls. So I keep struggling to move, while part of me simply admires the darkness all around. There is black, but that is merely a color, one that can be seen even under broad daylight. Then there are shadows, and true darkness, but those are just the absence of light. This stuff...is composed of something far beyond that. It is mesmerizing, in a way. Or it would be, if I weren¡¯t trapped inside it. It doesn¡¯t shift, doesn¡¯t acknowledge me. It simply exists, a vast, unfeeling thing that surrounds me completely. It¡¯s like being a blind fish in an ocean of black. I can¡¯t see, but I feel the vibrations of something moving, something shifting around me. Something I cannot grasp. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. More time passes, and I finally start moving. Well, twitching¡ªabout as much progress as a cockroach stuck on its back¡ªbut hey, baby steps. I keep going, following some vague sensation¡ªmaybe a current, maybe just my own dumbass instincts leading me in circles. Because that¡¯s exactly what happens. I realize pretty quickly that I¡¯m going nowhere, spinning like a goldfish in a toilet bowl. Then, I hit a wall. Not one I can see, of course, because that would imply some level of fairness. No, this is just an immovable force pressing against me like the universe itself decided to sit on my chest. I can barely feel anything, but somehow, I know I¡¯ve touched this thing before without realizing it. I try to push, straining like a toddler trying to deadlift a bus. The outcome is predictable. So I keep moving. Hit another wall. And another. And another. And then, finally, finally, it clicks. I¡¯m not a fish in some vast, mysterious ocean. I¡¯m a fucking bug trapped in a shot glass. The space around me is so pathetically tiny that I can¡¯t even pretend to move freely. Holy shit. I feel like the kind of idiot who walks into a glass door and apologizes to it. Cringing inwardly but moving along, I force myself to accept this staggering revelation. Turns out, the endless void wasn¡¯t endless at all¡ªjust my dumbass failing to recognize that I¡¯d been pressed so tightly against the walls that they were all I could perceive. The suffocating darkness was the container itself. This tiny, miserable teacup I¡¯m trapped in¡ªit¡¯s cylindrical. I can¡¯t see it, but I know it now. It¡¯s an instinct, an understanding that settles in my awareness, bringing with it a vague sense of scale. And that scale is small. Unbelievably, pathetically small. I still feel like a disembodied will¡ªno flesh, no bones, nothing to anchor me¡ªbut I¡¯m starting to piece things together. I¡¯m inside the Soul Well. Or at least my mind is. Maybe even my soul. That thought fits in a way I can¡¯t explain, like a puzzle piece snapping into place. And I¡¯m not alone. Six little "pebbles" drift through the murky, viscous not-quite-water surrounding me. They hover and swirl, moving as if carried by some unseen current, bobbing up and down in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Have they been here all along? ¡­Yeah. They must have. I was just too blind to notice. I reach out¡ªsomehow¡ªsummoning my will to seize one of these floating specks. It¡¯s not a hand that grips it, not really, but something makes contact. And the moment I touch it, the thing screams. Loud. Chaotic. Feral. A jagged mess of sound, like a creature choking on their own tongue while trying to talk. ¡­Goblin 1? Is that you!? Phac Okay, so I¡¯m out of the Soul Well. The moment my mind snaps back into place, my senses explode outward¡ªstretching across both my own body and the bone mech wrapped around me. It¡¯s quite the shift, like going from drowning in silence to being thrown into a concert at max volume. Every inch of flesh, every joint, every reinforced plate of bone, all at once¡ªit¡¯s there. Present. Waiting for me to move. I shake off the dirt covering me, clumps of soil rolling down my reinforced frame as I push myself upright. My first attempt is shaky. My second, barely better. It takes three tries before I finally steady myself on my feet. Note to self¡ªimprove joint flexibility in the prosthetic legs. The mech feels¡­ stiff. Not quite bad, but definitely not at its best. The bone plating creaks faintly as I shift, the structure groaning like an old door on rusted hinges. The flesh, at least, is still fresh¡ªsupple, intact, responding to my commands without lag. But yeah, I¡¯ve definitely felt smoother before. Still better than the GMK. Phuc dat sheet. And after the sensory deprivation hell I just clawed my way out of, Fleshcrafting feels downright divine. One second, I was locked in a void tighter than a nun¡¯s¡ªnever mind¡ªand now? I feel the stretch of my tendons, the press of my bones, the slow shift of muscle as I idly reinforce a few ligaments. It¡¯s comforting. Grounding. I tilt my head back, eyes locking onto the sky. The twin suns haven¡¯t moved. Not even a little. Now, don¡¯t get me wrong¡ªI love the whole magic angle. I¡¯m all for impossible bullshit when it means fleshcrafting or violently murdering goblins, but those two unmoving balls of light? They creep me the fuck out. So. Moving on. I pull up my status sheet. [Name: #@&??!] Difficulty: Hard Floor: 1 Time left until forced return: 4y 363d 22h 5m 10s Lvl 4 Strength: 10 Dexterity: 13 Constitution: 18 Mana: 4 Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. [Primary Class: Unavailable] [Sub-class: Unavailable] Skills: Soul Well - lvl 4 Fleshcrafting - lvl 7 Flesh Perception - lvl 3 [Skill Points: 0] [Stat Points: 0] Well. At least something still works as expected. Mana went up by one for some fucking reason, and Soul Well jumped two whole levels in the two hours I spent stuck *cough cough* exploring inside it. Gee. I wonder why. Might have something to do with the whitish pebble I¡¯m currently holding. Unlike inside the Soul Well, where its howls practically rattled my nonexistent bones, I can barely hear it now. Just faint little growls, the kind that sound more pained and scared than angry. A wolf soul. One of the three I found drifting in my lovely, claustrophobic teacup of horrors. I roll it between my fingers, feeling the odd weight of it¡ªlighter than a real pebble, but still there, still real. The sensation is strange, like holding something that exists on the edge of my perception, threatening to slip away if I lose focus. It''s the first time I''m able to properly hold one of these without it disappearing instantly. At least now I know where they went after I touched them. And, yeah, yanking it out of myself took more effort than trying to pull a steak out of a starving lion¡¯s mouth, but at least I managed. I don¡¯t know if other beings can hear it. After all, I¡¯m quite alone at the moment, despite what the voices in my head might claim. Other humans certainly didn¡¯t see the soul mist, so it stands to reason they wouldn¡¯t hear soul sounds either. But then again, assuming things is what landed me in inside the Soul Well. It turned out well in the end, but still¡ªnote to self: No more assumptions. At least not until I know a hell of a lot more. And speaking of things I don¡¯t know¡­ where the hell is everyone? This forest is too fucking empty. No birds singing, no insects buzzing, no distant rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. I thought I got used to this, but come on! No wolves. No goblins. No signs of anything wandering through since I went under. My wolf scarecrows are still standing, untouched, right where I left them. Yeah, no. This silence isn¡¯t normal. It¡¯s decided¡ªI¡¯m going hunting the moment I¡¯m done here. I walk toward the closest scarecrow. Scarewolf? Whatever. The closer I get, the more I feel it¡ªnot just see it, but sense its very structure. At twenty feet, I can trace the muscle fibers wrapped around the bones. At ten feet, I can feel them layered atop unmoving organs, preserved in stillness. And when I stand right in front of it, I catch the faintest sensation of the flesh deep beneath its peeling skin, twisted into the shape of an unbeating heart. Flesh Perception - lvl 3 > Flesh Perception - lvl 4 I place my whip-hand on the corpse¡¯s head, and the picture sharpens in an instant. My will spreads through the carcass like a current, ready to shape it, mold it like clay. It would be so easy. The body all but sings to me, whispering of ways I could weave another layer onto my armor. But I silence it. For now. How strange. The cells are undeniably dead, their internal machinery wrecked beyond repair, yet the tissue still bends to my will. Am I working with the laws of physics or against them? Gravity still exists. The photoreceptors in my eyes still depolarize when exposed to light. My heart still pumps blood. These are the biological imperatives required for my body to function¡ªI know because I can feel every moving part inside me. But is it truly required? I press the white pebble into the wolf¡¯s corpse. It sinks into the flesh without resistance, vanishing from my perception the moment it¡¯s absorbed. A minute passes. Then five. The carcass remains still, nothing stirring beneath the torn skin. I frown. Something feels different, but for the life of me, I can¡¯t tell what. I poke at the flesh, testing it. No visible change. No clear response. Just¡ª A flicker. A flash of text hovers over the corpse. And then, in the space of a breath, the dead wolf lunges, sinking its fangs into my throat. Understandable, have a great day Undead Wolf ¨C Lvl 2 "Hmmm. Interesting." The supposedly "undead" wolf keeps trying to gnaw through six layers of goblin leather, laced with bone shards and reinforced with a dozen plantaris tendons. The neck guard is overkill, really¡ªmy constitution is my highest stat. I''d be surprised if this thing''s teeth could even dent my skin at this point. "Who''s a good doggo?" I coo, patting it on the head. "Not you. Definitely not you." It doesn¡¯t react to my voice, just keeps chomping down with mindless persistence. Doesn''t even look different from before¡ªthrough the lens of my fleshcrafting at least¡ªstill as dead as it was five minutes ago. No heartbeat, no breath. So how the hell are its jaws moving? Muscle doesn¡¯t just contract on its own. Something is puppeting the corpse. I pry its mouth open and push it away and¡ªAh. There it is. Two green orbs burn in its skull, replacing the lifeless eyes. I mean... That¡¯s cool and all, but how the fuck does it work? Even a blind man would know this is necromancy of some sort, but I want details. Nitty thrice-damned gritty details. Since Fleshcrafting keeps insisting that everything is perfectly normal¡ªfeeding me false negatives like a broken diagnostic tool¡ªI suppose a little invasive exploration is in order. The tip of my whip hand peels back, exposing a sharp bone spike¡ªhardened by my 18 points in constitution. I drive it straight into the wolf¡¯s back, right where I shoved the soul pebble in earlier. Before the wolf can react, I try to pull¡ªgrabbing hold of whatever thread is tying the soul to the flesh and yanking it back toward the Well. For a moment, something rattles. It¡¯s like pulling on a¡ª Nothing. The wolf stays upright. And then it resumes snapping at my neck like a possessed chew toy. Wait, that''s not right. I''m the chew toy. I mean... Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. "Alright. Research plan B." My will snaps across my flesh mech, and my leg whips forward. The wolf soars through the air, flipping head over tail before crashing into the dirt. Its ribcage crumples inward on impact. It doesn¡¯t react. Why would it? It doesn¡¯t breathe. It doesn¡¯t bleed. It doesn¡¯t even flinch. The pain center of its brain has been liquefied by necrosis for hours. I pace around the undead doggo, whip hand idly poking holes in its flesh. The soul is still inside, but I can¡¯t grab it. Would it be able to hide as easily inside bones as it does in a whole corpse? It twitches, legs jerking in place as something inside struggles to move. My fleshcrafted reinforcements keep the tendons locked, preventing them from bending the way they should. But it doesn¡¯t stop trying. Its mouth snaps uselessly, over and over, biting at nothing. "Still no sounds, huh? Silent little bastard." Fine. If it won¡¯t talk, it¡¯ll splat. My whip hand lashes out, cutting through its middle. The torso detaches in a spray of rotten gore. Limbs twitch. Half a body lands in a heap. Finally, soul mist seeps from the wound, curling into the air like evaporating breath. The wolf slows. Stops biting. And dies. Again. I feel the exact moment the soul stops exerting power over the corpse. There''s no kill notification. And instantly, a wave of exhaustion hits me¡ªlike I just sprinted up a dozen flights of stairs with weights strapped to my legs. My muscles don¡¯t ache, but there¡¯s a dull, draining pull in my core, as if something inside me just burned through a chunk of fuel I didn¡¯t know I was using. Could this be...the so-called mana? What a shitty sensation...I don''t even know if I''m right. Where¡¯s my MP bar, huh? System? Predictably, it doesn''t respond. I wasn¡¯t doing anything when the wolf ¡°died¡±, so I don''t really know what happened...I''ll find out though. I''ll find it all out... I kneel beside the corpse, watching the mist unravel from its body, thin tendrils curling into the air. And yet... as I reach out with my will, the wisps respond, slowly twisting together, threading into a shape¡ªlike pulling at the loose end of a ball of yarn, weaving it back into something whole. I have so many things to test. Theories¡ªsome eloquent, some insane¡ªstart stacking in my mind. Questions I need to answer. But then¡ª Something shifts. A ping¡ªa pulse of sensation. Somewhere behind me. I whip around. Flesh Perception flashes. There¡ªbetween the greenery, about a hundred feet away¡ªthree figures, partially obscured. Armed with spears. I recognize them. From the bar. The moment I turn, they bolt. And honestly? I can¡¯t blame them. I must look like something straight out of Outlast. "Wait!" I call out. "I swear this isn''t what it looks like!" They run faster. "¡­Alright. Fair enough." The other side (John Smith pov) Branches snap underfoot as we run. No, flee. The forest is a blur of shifting green and brown, streaked with the harsh glare of two suns. Their light filters through the canopy in fractured beams, casting long, sharp-edged shadows that flicker like grasping hands. I barely feel the gash on my leg anymore¡ªHaste and three points in Dexterity see to that¡ªbut the dull ache pulses with every step, reminding me that I''m not moving fast enough. My flabby, out-of-shape body protests with each ragged breath, muscles burning from exertion they were never meant to endure. I can still see it in my mind. That thing. The walking horror draped in stitched-together skins and mismatched bones, its frame shifting. And its head¡ªgods above, its head¡ªhalf a wolf''s skull, hollow eyes burning with something that shouldn''t be there. It spoke. It fucking spoke. And it had the voice of that weird kid from Jim''s bar. The one who ran off alone yesterday. I don''t have time to think about what that means. Ahead of me, Karl leads the way, his iron spear gripped tight in one hand. Unlike me, he isn''t running on borrowed speed. His endurance is real, earned through training back on Earth. The kind of man who has already killed eight wolves with that spear and is hungry for more. The burn scars covering his arms and neck look almost iridescent in the strange light, mapping constellations across his muscled frame. His shirt hangs in tatters, revealing more burns across his back. Flanking him is Matthew, moving with efficiency, eyes scanning our surroundings as we run. The teenager''s dark skin gleams with sweat, his torn jeans and shredded hoodie barely holding together after our encounters with the forest''s denizens. He was the first to spot the stream back then, a narrow ribbon of water cutting through the trees. Good news? We now have fresh water. Bad news? It was near that thing. We keep running. We don''t stop until the only sound left is our own ragged breathing. --------------- Karl raises a hand, signaling us to slow. We obey, pressing ourselves against the thick trunks of a cluster of trees. Our breath comes in short bursts. I struggle to keep mine even, still trying to fight off the creeping hysteria clawing at the edges of my mind. My once-pristine office shirt is now a grimy, blood-stained rag clinging to my soft middle. Matthew crouches low, peering through the undergrowth, his dark eyes darting left and right. "Don''t hear it following us," he murmurs. Karl nods, scanning the trees. He isn''t even winded. "That doesn''t mean it''s not there." I swallow, glancing back the way we came. My stomach twists with unease. "What the hell is that thing?" I keep my voice barely above a whisper. "A skinwalker? Some kind of undead?" Matthew scoffs. "Necromancers don''t exist." The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Karl''s grip on his spear tightens. "Neither did magic, two days ago." That shuts him up. I press my back harder against the tree, trying to ignore the shaking in my fingers. "You heard it, right?" I whisper. "It sounded like that kid from the bar." Karl exhales slowly. "That kid''s dead." "Or worse," Matthew mutters. A beat of silence. I don''t want to think about what ''worse'' could mean. Matthew shifts, restless. "This is just like that book I read once," he whispers. "Whole town gets teleported to another world, some people get powers, and one guy goes crazy and starts wearing people''s skin." I shoot him a look. "How the hell is that supposed to help?" "It''s not." I resist the urge to strangle him. We keep moving through the underbrush, careful to stay low and quiet. The suns are at their peak now, their twin heat beating down through gaps in the canopy. The light is too harsh, making everything feel exposed. My sweat-soaked clothes cling uncomfortably to my body, chafing with every movement. Matthew wipes sweat from his forehead, his young face creased with worry beyond his years. "At least we won''t get rickets." I blink. "What?" "Sunlight. Vitamin D. No rickets." Karl snorts, the sound drawing attention to the web of burn scars across his jawline. "Yeah, great. Now we just have to worry about being skinned alive by a humanoid monster." Matthew shrugs. "Hey, small victories." I let out a short, dry laugh. It''s forced. But it''s something. Karl smirks. "Besides, if we do get eaten, at least it''ll have a balanced diet." Matthew nods solemnly. "Protein, iron, maybe some calcium if it goes for the bones." I stare at them. "What the actual hell is wrong with you two?" Matthew shrugs again. "We cope in different ways." Karl gives me a sideways glance, his eyes flickering over my soft physique. "And what''s your coping mechanism?" I open my mouth. Close it. "¡­Complaining, mostly." Karl grins. "Figured." The moment of levity is brief. Too brief. Because Karl isn''t listening anymore. His expression has gone tight, jaw clenched. I follow his gaze. The air in my lungs freezes. Scattered near the trees, barely visible through the gaps in the foliage, are the blackened, smoldering remains of wolves and goblins. The charred stench hits me a second later, thick and acrid, mingling with the dry earth. Karl doesn''t speak. He doesn''t have to. I know what he''s thinking. His brother had burned in the bar yesterday, just like these things. For the first time since we started running, my fear takes a backseat to something colder. Something that curls deep in my gut like a stone. Karl steps forward and drives his spear into the ground. The earth trembles slightly from the force, a whisper of displaced air stirring the grass. His burned hands grip the shaft so tightly his knuckles turn white. His voice is low, barely above a growl. "I''ll kill that bitch when I find her." I say nothing. I don''t like the idea. But I like the idea of being alone in this cursed forest even less. So I just nod. ----------------- Matthew has circled around, keeping a careful watch on the perimeter. He returns now, eyes still darting. His torn clothes hang loosely on his lanky frame, the once-bright colors now dulled with dirt and dried blood. "We need to move," he says. "Staying still too long is a death sentence." Karl doesn''t argue. I hesitate, then blurt out, "Where the hell are we even going?" Matthew frowns. "Away from that thing, for starters." Karl rolls his shoulders, the movement rippling across his scarred muscles. "And toward civilization. There has to be a town or something nearby. We just need to survive long enough to find it." Matthew exhales, glancing back toward the ruins of the burned bodies. "I don''t know if anyone''s surviving long in this world." I don''t have an answer for that. Instead, my stomach chooses that moment to betray me with a low, miserable growl. Matthew turns. Raises an eyebrow. "¡­Shut up," I mutter, pressing a hand against my belly. "Didn''t you take rations as your quest reward?" he asks. I glare at Karl. Karl shrugs. "We needed weapons more." I sigh, rubbing my face. I had just wanted to have a drink at Jim''s bar. Maybe complain about work, drown in cheap beer, and forget about my dead-end accounting job for one damn night. Instead, I got dumped into a death forest with flesh-wearing monsters and absolutely zero job security. The superpowers do not make up for it. 🆒 So there are people still alive in the forest. Three at minimum, most likely more. That''s good for them, I suppose. What isn''t good is the paranoia they caused me by running off without giving me a single damn second to explain myself. Do they think I like looking like this? That I wake up in the morning, gaze at my stitched-up, barely cohesive flesh suit, and go, Ah yes, peak aesthetics. I don¡¯t fancy getting an arrow, a fireball, or¡ªGod forbid¡ªsome holy magic shoved through my skull just because someone hiding in a bush thinks I¡¯m a monster. I mean, come on! I shouldn¡¯t even have a level over my head. Isn''t that, like, the hallmark of a fellow friendly human? Truly, the art of judging books by their covers is alive and well. There¡¯s no use crying over spilled milk, though. I¡¯ll just need to get stronger¡ªstrong enough that nobody can pull anything before I can explain myself. And to do that, I need more experience. More bodies. Luckily, nature is generous today. Three wolves¡ªalive, breathing, fresh¡ªcircle around three others. The others are... less alive. The undead wolves don¡¯t breathe. They don¡¯t bleed. They move even when half their ribs are missing, even when bones snap and flesh is chewed off. They simply keep going. It is, if I do say so myself, beautiful. One of the live wolves leaps at an undead one. Its jaws clamp down, crunching into the rotting flesh, severing the front leg in one brutal snap. The undead wolf stumbles¡ªonly to keep moving, unfazed. Its broken stump scrapes against the dirt as it lunges forward, ripping a chunk from its attacker¡¯s throat. The living wolf gurgles, staggers, then collapses in a mess of twitching limbs and pooling blood. Nice. All the while, I am doing laps around them, controlling my flesh suit to move faster and more seamlessly. Each twitch of my fingers sends commands through the neural pathways I''ve crafted, adjusting tension in sinew and bone. With each circuit, I push myself further, faster. The suit responds, my movements becoming more fluid, more natural. It took a while to get the hang of it, but now? Now I can move. My head feels a bit woozy. Scratch that, it feels like it''s going to explode, but I keep on going. Pressure builds behind my eyes as I maintain control over my true body while simultaneously refining the movement of the mech. It''s like trying to pat your head, rub your stomach, and solve differential equations all at once. The last living wolf-a younger one with gray-flecked fur-realizes it''s outmatched. It turns to flee, but my creations are already moving to intercept, cutting off its escape. The wolf backs up, hackles raised, teeth bared in a final show of defiance. It lunges, taking a jawless undead by surprise, tearing off what remains of its face. For a moment, it seems the wolf might escape. Then the other two are on it. One with the missing leg drags itself across the ground with surprising speed, latching onto the wolf''s hind leg. Another with a hole in its side attacks from the front. The living wolf fights valiantly, but it''s three against one. The last living wolf dies in a spray of red. [You have killed a Wolf - lvl 3] The undead ones don¡¯t stop moving. They turn to me, their half-missing eyes locking onto my form. Ah. Right. They really don¡¯t like me. They drag themselves toward me, some crawling because their legs are broken, others twitching from their injuries. I don¡¯t let them get close. A quick stomp here. A skull crushed there. One by one, I snuff them out, their unnatural existence flickering out like dying embers. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Each time one dies, a fresh spike of exhaustion slams into my skull like a hammer. I don¡¯t care. I reach inward, pulling at the wisps of their souls before they dissipate. My grip is firm, precise. So precise that one slips through my fingers¡ªdamn. Another vanishes before I can reel it in. By the time I¡¯m done, I¡¯ve only managed to capture one of my original undead¡¯s souls. The rest? Gone. Too slow. I miiiight be getting a little bit tired, and I''ll have to bury myself soonish. Souls do tend to become a bit more fragile after repeated transfers between bodies, but I''m sure this one was on me. I wipe a hand over my face¡ªan unnecessary gesture, considering I don¡¯t sweat anymore for some reason, but old habits die hard. It didn''t take long to figure out that my undead attack anything near them, not just me. If some unsuspecting real wolves decide to sniff them, congratulations, they¡¯ve just started a war. Of course, they still attack me afterwards but...the experience of what they kill gets redirected to me. This is the reason I am now a proud level 6 with 24 points in Constitution. That''s the good, fantastic, cheat-like even...if they didn''t drop dead if they end up 100 meters away from me or so. I''ve tested it five times, and every time the soul simply pops out of the body and begins unraveling like normal. I''m still getting hit with instant migraines though, and Constitution doesn''t help as much as I hoped it would. Neverthematter, I take 2 souls of the freshly killed wolves. Fresh souls dissipate slower than used ones. They are like... vegetables, I guess. Fresh from the garden versus left in the fridge for a week. The new souls struggle against my grip-mental grip? Spiritual grip? Whatever you want to call it-fighting the inevitable as I draw them into the Well. Now that it''s full once more, it¡¯s time to get to work...ehh, continue working. I kneel beside the fallen bodies and start mending. First, I set the bones¡ªtwisting, shifting, molding them back into shape. Then I reallocate the flesh. The stomach? Not needed. The intestines? Completely useless. I convert everything into raw muscle. Thicker limbs. Reinforced jaw structures. Enhanced mobility. They might be mere puppets for souls, but as I''ve come to learn, the strength of the body somehow carries over into undeath, at least partially. Their forms become leaner, stronger, streamlined for efficiency. As I work, I add some extra mass to my own flesh mech. A little reinforcement never hurts. This has been my routine for the past few hours. Raise the dead. Make them fight until they drop. Harvest the souls. Rebuild. Rinse and repeat. It¡¯s an elegant cycle, if I do say so myself. Of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that I tried following those guys from before and got left in the dust. Absolutely no relation whatsoever. But if I just happen to be training my movement speed alongside my fleshcrafting, well. That¡¯s just a coincidence. At the end of it all, there¡¯s one undeniable truth.Few things are as good for solving problems as personal power. Someone tries to kill me? I make myself tougher. They sneak up on me? I sense their flesh before they get close. Random bullshit magic? I¡¯ll get enough Constitution to parry it with my pinkie. Okay, maybe not quite that extreme. But the idea is there. I¡¯ll just become so strong that I can focus entirely on the wonders of fleshcrafting without getting interrupted by inconveniences like danger, death, or annoying people running off before I can talk. I sink into my Soul Well, reaching inward. The trapped souls squirm, bewildered, confused. I don¡¯t care. With one sharp pull, I yank them out, fracturing them slightly in the process. They wail. Then I slam them into their freshly prepared bodies. The corpses twitch. Limbs spasm. They rise-slowly, awkwardly at first, then with increasing steadiness as the souls settle. One shakes itself, like it''s trying to dislodge water from its fur. Another paws at the ground, claws digging furrows into the soft earth. The third-the largest-simply stares at me, silently. But I am already "sprinting" away. I know this song and dance, and I don''t feel like getting my heels bitten for the 7th time. They''ll follow. They always do. And once they catch up, they''ll try to kill me, then each other, then anything else that moves. It''s their nature now-or rather, the nature I''ve imposed upon them? I''m not sure yet. On an unrelated note, one of the voices says I should shove a soul in a brain-dead body with functioning organs and see what happens. I wholeheartedly agree, but that''s for later. The forest blurs around me as I run. My flesh mech moves with something resembling grace (if you squint really hard) through the underbrush, ducking low-hanging branches, leaping over fallen logs. Behind me, I hear the crashing pursuit of the undead. They''re not subtle. They don''t need to be. They feel no pain, no fatigue. They''ll run until their legs break, and then they''ll crawl, which I quite respect. My skull throbs. My body wants to stop. I ignore it, and as I run, I reinforce my cerebral veins and arteries that seem to really wish to weirdly burst even though I am manually beating my heart at the perfect rhythm (it kept on stopping from time to time which was annoying). That''s so fucking weird, like this weird buzzing I keep feeling and these migraines every time an undead wolf dies. It¡¯s almost like¡ª Something clicks. A little bit of something in my chest. It''s like flesh perception in a way, so I recognize the feeling even before my mind interprets the system notification in front of me. A pulse of faint energy that flows through me. Not flesh. Not blood. [Mana Perception lvl 0 - Mana Perception lvl 1] Oh. Ohhh. Yeah. It¡¯s all coming together. What happens if... What happens if I put a soul in a body that doesn''t fit? Believe it or not, it¡¯s a stupid idea. I learned that the hard way after shoving a goblin¡¯s soul into a wolf¡¯s corpse. It worked, and by worked, I mean the poor bastard spent its brief undeath flailing like a fish on land, crawling away from me in sheer terror because it had no idea how to move on four legs. Of course, any stupid idea becomes genius if you sprinkle in a bit of fleshcrafting. That¡¯s my new motto, my new standard to live by. Write that down somewhere, future me. So, I modified the wolf¡¯s skeleton, shifting its structure to resemble a goblin¡¯s. Adjusted the joints, shortened the spine, and tweaked the musculature. The results? Far less pitiful flailing and way more undead wolf head atop a hunched, vaguely humanoid body covered in patchy fur. And the little guy was so happy! Well, maybe not happy, but a lot less freaked out. The moment I released it from my mental grip, it rose shakily onto its new legs. Wobbled a bit. Then steadied. Its head swiveled back and forth as it examined its altered form, tail giving an experimental wag. He even tried to claw my eyes out once! If that¡¯s not a sign of a healthy, well-adjusted undead, I don¡¯t know what is. Unfortunately, he was also quite the unruly bastard. He figured out quickly that pain wasn¡¯t a thing anymore, which made him recklessly aggressive, and since he lacked lungs, he was just as silent as the wolves. Not a moan, not a growl¡ªjust pure, creeping malice when its fear faded away. Anyway, I tossed the gob-wolf into a pack of undead wolves, and they tore it apart instantly. For some reason, they seemed even more aggressive toward it than usual. Curious. Maybe some kind of instinctual rejection? A sense that something about it was even more wrong than they were? I¡¯ll have to test that later. The intelligence question is a big one, though. How smart is an undead goblin? More importantly, does the soul transfer mess with its thinking? Hell, I don''t even know how smart a normal goblin is! Either way, I have a better candidate in mind for that particular experiment, but first, I need more material. Gods above, has it already been three days since I got isekai¡¯d? Time flies when you''re committing morally questionable acts of science. What else happened in the past day, hmm... My head hurts, so my thoughts are a little jumbled, but OH! That''s good! It''s perfect even! Check this out, you pitiful, pathetic voices telling me to sleep! [Name: ?????????] Difficulty: Hard Floor: 1 Time left until forced return: 4y 362d 2h 13m 56s This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Lvl 7 Strength: 10 Dexterity: 13 Constitution: 27 Mana: 6 [Primary Class: Unavailable] [Sub-class: Unavailable] Skills: Soul Well - lvl 5 Fleshcrafting - lvl 8 Flesh Perception - lvl 5 Mana Perception - lvl 1 [Skill Points: 0] [Stat Points: 0] Ignore my beautiful, beautiful constitution for now and gaze upon my 6 mana! It grew! And I didn¡¯t even put a single point into it! Based on the constant exhaustion gnawing at my bones, I can only assume that my method of overexerting myself into near-mana-starvation is working. Training regimen, that¡¯s all! Sure, I feel like a wrung-out rag every single moment, but progress is progress! My Mana Perception is still sitting at level 1, though, and no matter what I do, I can¡¯t control the buzzing energy (which I suppose is indeed mana) like I do with flesh. That part¡¯s a bummer. I''ve been trying meditation techniques, focusing exercises, even attempts to visualize the mana as a tangible thing I could grasp. Nothing yet. I¡¯ll figure it out, eventually. Because I have time! Time for experiments! Time for crafting! Time for everything! I clap my hand and whip together, giggling at the sudden rush of excitement. My energy levels spike and crash these days, like my body can''t quite handle the constant expenditure of power. One moment I''m elated, feverishly working on three projects at once; the next, I''m collapsed on the forest floor in cardiac arrest. Worth it, though. So worth it. Speaking of experiments, I also tried stuffing souls into brain-dead bodies. Results? Puppets. Still puppets, just a bit more flexible due to the complete integrity of the body. The soul didn¡¯t interact with the nervous system at all. Neural pathways? Useless. Even if I manually kept its heart pumping. The thing acted just as undead as the others. So then I tried varying degrees of brain damage on wolf corpses before soul insertion. Some were intact but oxygen-starved, others had suffered trauma, and a few were basically mush inside. Mixed results, but ultimately, it didn¡¯t work as I expected. It seems that "death" isn¡¯t an instant process. It¡¯s progressive. And I can measure it through soul mist¡ªthe wisps that seep from a body as it "dies". The more mist that leaves, the more ¡°dead¡± the body is. At some threshold, the system seems to label it as an empty vessel, ready to accept a soul. This is mostly congruent with the amount of damage to the creature''s brain. Which means there¡¯s no jamming souls into the living. Or even the mostly dead. If there¡¯s even a wisp of soul mist still clinging to a corpse, it¡¯s like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. And believe me, I really, really fucking tried. Same with stacking souls in one body. No matter how much I tried, it was like slamming into a wall. The system¡ªor nature itself¡ªjust wouldn¡¯t allow it. But I said it before, and I¡¯ll say it again¡ªthere is nothing that fleshcrafting can¡¯t fix. Can¡¯t break the rules? Make your own. Can¡¯t put two souls in the same body? Merge the bodies. If a soul needs a proper brain to function perfectly, then I¡¯ll build a brain. If a single body can¡¯t hold multiple souls, then I¡¯ll stitch together a monstrosity that can. Man-made horrors beyond comprehension? Sign me the hell up. I just need the raw materials. I didn''t even begin to push the limits on what a "vessel" can be, focusing more on the possibility of complete and proper revival, but I''ll expand upon that in my following thesis. Unfortunately, wolves are getting scarce. Despite moving locations a few times, I¡¯m finding fewer and fewer. Either I¡¯ve already culled too many, my fellow humans culled too many, or the living ones have wised up and started avoiding the cursed, flesh-warping nightmare in their woods. Which means... It¡¯s Goblin Time I stop beneath a gnarled tree, stretching my massive, sinewy limbs with a wet crack. My flesh-mech is nearly three meters tall now, layered with dense muscle and reinforced bones from all the wolves I¡¯ve harvested. Time to find new test subjects. I cup my many-jointed "hand" around where my mouth should be underneath my full-head bone helmet. ¡°Here, goblin-goblin-goblin~¡± The forest is silent. For now. But I know they¡¯re out there. And soon, they¡¯ll be mine. Moar! Ok so first of all, my tree base is very, very cool. It does NOT look like a biter nest from Factorio, it doesn''t, I swear. If anyone claims otherwise, I will rearrange their face, literally. I''ve spent enough time on that game to know what those look like, and this is completely different. My creation is an artistic masterpiece of biological engineering, not some video game monstrosity. More importantly, it¡¯s a good idea! I found a [Troll - Lvl 7] earlier while searching for goblins. A hulking thing, four meters tall at least, all corded muscle and slouching menace. Dark, mottled skin stretched over its oversized frame, and its grotesque mouth had way too many teeth for something that wasn¡¯t explicitly made to chew through boulders. And yet, despite all that, the moment my flesh whip touched it, it died. Just like that. One second, a living wall of muscle, the next, a corpse. Interestingly, its insides were tougher than wolves and resisted my attempt at fleshcrafting for half a moment before giving in. It felt more like trying to rip through rubber instead of meat. Still not a problem for the metaphorical chainsaw, but interesting nonetheless. Maybe a higher Constitution means resistance to this kind of stuff? A question for later. For now, it was resources. I ripped it apart, pulling muscle, bone, and whatever that dark, sinewy tissue was, replacing my flesh mech¡¯s weaker parts wholesale. Then, with the excess, I turned it to a tree base¡ªbecause why the hell not? The process was surprisingly intuitive. I wrapped the muscle tissue around the trunk, encouraging it to spread and interweave with the branches. The bones I used as support struts, arranging them in a radial pattern from the central trunk. The combination created something akin to strong rubber¡ªflexible yet incredibly sturdy. One thing led to another and now here I am, sitting upon my flesh throne six meters above the ground with a dozen goblin corpses stacked near me like firewood. From up here, the forest stretches out in all directions, an endless sea of leaves and branches. I can''t see above the tree canopy, so the view isn''t that impressive, but there''s something about being elevated that feels... right. One of my undead wolves paces around the base of the tree, occasionally trying to climb up but sliding back down pathetically. Still no birds or other critters around because this is a creepy-ass forest and it doesn''t want anyone to mistakenly think otherwise. I still sleep underground, of course. That¡¯s just common sense. I think. The voice of reason is unsure. Anyway, it¡¯s time for science! Alas, what I¡¯m about to do could be dangerous. So I take precautions, as all proper scientists do. First, a test subject. I grab one of the goblin corpses and start dismantling it, one limb at a time. The body is green and small, dressed in primitive leather, with red markings painted over its skin. Different from the blue-marked goblins I met on the first day. Those were weaker, less clothed. Tribal markings? Clan distinction? A village, maybe? A goblin village would be simply adorable. Anyway, these guys were led by a [Goblin Warrior - lvl 6] , just like the first guys were led by a Goblin Shaman. I''m a pretty insane matchup for physical type fighters, I''m finding out, so they were little more than lambs to the slaughter. The warrior had tried to swing some crude stone axe at me, but my whip hand wrapped around his wrist and he was brain-dead before he could even finish his battle cry. Bo Hoo, git gud or gtfo is what I said to its corpse and I stand by it. I prepare myself to delve into the soul well, but then stop. It''s probably overkill, but I check my flesh mech once more, and also my body first. Just to be prepared for everything. My real body is still missing both my legs and one of my hands is a simple tendril which I use to fleshcraft stuff, but this doesn''t mean that I''m not healing. My regeneration is, in short, monstrous. It''s not growing my limbs back by itself (yet), but I don''t need it to. I only need the ingredients. Muscle, bone, cartilage, fat. Thankfully, due to my fully carnivorous diet, I am getting enough nutrients. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. This isn''t an excuse for the 20 kilos of mass I''ve put back on, but it''s one of the core factors besides my Constitution. It boggles the mind how and where magic interplays with biochemistry, but I digress. I probably could have used the self-mass I gained to fix one of my legs completely, but I opted to instead strengthen my arm muscles and torso, increase my bone density and thicken my cranium after wrapping it in muscle. My face probably looks absolutely horrible at this point, but I''m not taking the bone helmet off anyway so who cares. Beauty standards can get fucked when survival is on the line. The mass can always be recycled, so if I suddenly find my mech inadequate, I can always pause and craft myself a leg, but I''d rather wait until I have enough mass for both of them. Symmetry matters, at least when it comes to basic locomotion. Checkup finished, I delve into the Soul Well. The journey feels different this time. What was once a claustrophobic descent into impenetrable darkness now feels almost... comfortable. The darkness seem less dense, as if my eyes are adapting to see within it. The pressure that once felt crushing is now much less so. The souls drift around me, twinkling motes of essence suspended in the void. Some scatter as I approach, while others, interestingly, seem to drift closer. There are...maybe 15 of them now? I''ll count them later. I reach out and yoink the soul I''m looking for. Interestingly, it''s the biggest of any I have, bigger than the Troll''s or the Goblin Warrior''s, despite the one I took it from being only level 3 when he died. Fascinating, huh? The Goblin Shaman''s soul pulses in my grasp, but unlike its brethren, it doesn''t scream. I pull my consciousness back to the physical realm, opening my eyes once more. I glance at the soul pebble in my hand and then at the limbless goblin corpse splayed out before me on the flesh platform. The pebble seems to vibrate against my palm. I don''t need to push the thing inside manually anymore; practice had seen to that. Instead, I simply drop it from my hand and it falls into the corpse. I watch as a baleful green glow starts emanating from its eyes despite the fact that the eyelids are closed. It always happens, even if I take the eyes out entirely, so I don''t question it anymore. Magic, am I right? The soul of the Goblin Shaman settles into the vessel and I watch the white letters appearing over its head. [Undead Goblin Shaman - Lvl 3] The glow stabilizes, and the body twitches once, twice, then falls still again. The head lolls to the side, and those glowing eyes seem to be looking straight at me. "Hello there," I say cheerfully, as if greeting a new neighbor. "Welcome to the afterlife. Well, not really the afterlife. More like the after-afterlife? Or maybe undeath? I haven''t quite figured out the proper terminology yet." The goblin doesn''t respond, but it doesn''t try to attack me either, which is already an improvement over my previous subjects. "Can you understand me? Do you know what happened to you?" I continue, not really expecting an answer. None of them ever respond meaningfully. The live goblins start trying to run away after a certain pain threshold, and the undead ones are just confused after a soul transfer. They also don''t try talking to me in their language, even when I tried mimicking their sounds. "Look, I get it. Being dead and then suddenly not-dead but also not-alive must be confusing. But I''m trying to communicate here, maybe we can¡ª" The goblin opens its mouth, but doesn''t try biting. He simply opens it as if trying to make sounds, but undead don''t breathe. None did so far. This one doesn''t as well, only opening and closing his mouth repeatedly. "Are you trying to talk? Is something wrong with the voice box? You are able to move your face muscles, so why not your diaphragm to pull in some air?" I muse, watching as the jaw continues to work silently. This is new. This is progress. Usually they just try to eat my face off. I glance at the pile of dismembered limbs and get an idea. Carefully, I take one of the severed goblin arms and press it against the ragged stump where his right arm used to be. The flesh melds together with ease. The goblin looks down at his newly attached arm, then slowly raises it and begins waving it at me. "No way," I whisper. "Are you trying to communicate?" The arm moves in what seems like deliberate patterns, not the random flailing I''ve seen before. Could it be... sign language? Or some sort of goblin semaphore? Suddenly, I feel a buzzing sensation coming from the direction of the goblin. It''s faint at first, barely perceptible, but it grows stronger as I focus on it. I try to sense it more clearly, and realize that it''s probably mana. The feeling is quite similar to the one I feel inside of me... but this one is coming from the outside. No, not completely but... a tether, connecting me and the goblin? [Mana perception lvl 1 - Mana Perception lvl 2] Yeah, I think I feel it now. There''s another mana thread going downwards as well, toward the undead wolf at the base of the tree... I can feel my mana flowing from my body towards my undead minions! That''s so damn cool! It''s like I''m a puppeteer, but instead of strings, I''m using pure magical energy...and I can''t really control shit, but eh... I''m so awed by the discovery that I don''t immediately notice the mana tether toward the goblin buzzing more intensely as it gesticulates and opens/closes his mouth. The creature becomes more animated, its movements more purposeful, more deliberate. And then, like a radio finally tuning into the right frequency, I hear it¡ªa voice, scraping against the inside of my skull like rusty nails. "CuRsEd CReaTuRE, yoU MusT DIE" Oh. Then the goblin corpse explodes. A shockwave of raw force rips through the platform, sending chunks of flesh and bone flying. I barely manage to hold on, my whip hand anchoring me to the tree as the blast shreds through my surroundings. The concussive force of the blast sends me tumbling backward, my flesh mech absorbing most of the impact but not enough to prevent me from seeing stars for a few seconds. The goblin¡¯s remains rain down in pieces, alongside part of my flesh platform. I blink. Then I start laughing. Well, that was unexpected. A talking undead. A thinking undead. And it tried to self-destruct me with magic! I grin behind my helmet, already pulling new goblin bodies toward me and regathering the little fucker''s soul mist. Because we''re not done. No no noo... not by a long shot. Sweet words Up on my tree flesh platform, I''m busying myself with what could generously be called "arts and crafts" if the materials weren''t severed limbs and goblin entrails. The light from the two blazing suns filters through the canopy and casts overlapping shadows across my "workshop". "And now, ladies and gentlemen¡ªwell, just gentlemen, I suppose, since all my current audience members appear to be male goblins¡ªI present to you: ''The Adventures of Me!''" I announce to my captive audience of one: a decapitated goblin head impaled on a spike of bone, green fire smoldering in its empty eye sockets and its mouth glued shut. The flesh puppets dance at my command. I''ve fashioned them from scraps of goblin and troll flesh. One is larger, vaguely humanoid but with bulging muscles and a bone helmet that''s obviously meant to represent me. The other is smaller with exaggerated pointed ears. I''ve even attached thin strands of muscle fiber to serve as control strings, even though I don''t really need them. "Scene one: Our hero encounters a pack of vicious wolves!" I narrate dramatically, manipulating the ''me'' puppet with one hand while using the other to introduce several misshapen lumps that are meant to be wolves. "But our hero is mighty and clever! With just a touch of his magic hand¡ª" I make the ''me'' puppet extend a thin tendril toward one of the wolf lumps, "¡ªthe wolf falls! And then another! And another!" I smash the puppets together with excessive violence. "Splat! Squelch! Aaargh!" The goblin head watches silently, those eerie green flames flickering slightly as if in response to my performance. "Scene two: A mighty troll appears!" I continue, introducing a new, larger lump of flesh with crude arms. "Oh no! It''s huge! What will our hero do? Oh wait, he just touches it and¡ªBOOM! Down it goes! Because our hero is awesome!" The two puppets fight against mock wolves and troll figures, moving in jerky spasms as I puppeteer their battle. The goblin''s fingers splay wide as I manipulate fleshcrafted glands embedded in its palms, causing them to secrete crimson fluid that arcs through the air¡ªthat''s mana. A troll''s chest collapses inward when I trigger the carefully constructed flesh-mechanisms within it. With subtle twitches of my will, I activate the pulsating flesh-sacs I''d grown into the "stage floor", creating undulating waves of tissue that rise up to engulf the wolves. ...All right, I might be having way too much fun with this, but communication has proven frustratingly difficult. It would be so much easier to simply speak mentally with my little friend, but for the life of me, I can''t control my mana whatsoever, let alone do fucking telepathy with it. Simply moving it feels like trying to thread a needle while wearing boxing gloves in an earthquake¡ªtechnically possible, but practically impossible without serious training. Speaking to the soul directly before putting it inside a body was a complete dud as well. It was like talking to a rock, both inside the soul well and outside of it. The souls just floated there, occasionally screaming, but giving no indication they understood or even perceived me. So this was my last resort (for now). Puppet shows for the undead. At least the head seemed to be watching, those flame-filled sockets tracking my movements. "And finally, scene three: Our hero encounters more goblins!" I introduce several small green lumps. "Some with blue marks, some with red marks. But they all fall the same!" I make the ''me'' puppet dance around, dispatching goblin after goblin, adding little little screams and death rattles for dramatic effect. "And that''s how I became king of the forest!" I conclude with a theatrical bow, dropping the puppets. "So what do you think?" I ask the goblin head, leaning in close to its snarling, face. For a moment, nothing happens. Then I feel the tether of mana connecting us begin quivering stronger and stronger and¡ª "Vile Spirit! Your torture has no hold on me. My essence belongs to the Forest Gods! Lay thine foul tendrils off of me and eat rotten mushrooms until your guts burst with maggot spawn!" If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The voice scratches against the inside of my skull like fingernails on chalkboard, grating and unpleasant but clear. Progress! "Well, that''s not very nice," I reply, keeping my tone conversational despite the headache beginning to form behind my eyes. "After all the effort I put into that performance? Critics these days, I swear." The voice keeps screeching in my mind, but I ignore most of the creative profanity as I unscrew the goblin head from its spike and take it into my hand, turning it to face me. The flames in its eye sockets flare brighter, almost angrily. "Your mother mated with cave slugs! Your offspring will be born without bones! The Forest Gods will reclaim your putrid essence and feed it to the worms!" Forest Gods, huh? Now that sounds interesting... More profanities pour into my consciousness, and I start feeling the tether of mana connecting me to the head beginning to vibrate more intensely. It''s going to explode again, I already know. The little fucker is somehow getting better at exploding, which is both impressive and annoying. At first, I thought that not allowing him any limbs would stop his attempts, and it did...for about 10 minutes, then he exploded anyway. Then I sewed his mouth shut, and it worked for a bit, but now it seemed he had found yet another workaround. The trembling of the tether intensifies, and I can feel how the little bastard pulls on my mana and condenses it within himself. It''s like he''s creating a knot in the flow, a blockage that builds pressure until¡ª "Oh no you don''t," I mutter, and begin vigorously shaking the head like I''m mixing a fucking smoothie. The flames in its eye sockets flicker wildly, and the voice in my head becomes broken and distorted as his concentration wavers. "C-C-Curse y-y-y-you! S-s-stop th-th-that!" This process has become both tedious and fun. Tedious because I have to re-gather the fucker''s soul every time he explodes, which means another trip to the soul well and another vessel prepared. And I also feel like a hammer struck my head every time because I am apparently bleeding mana for a bit every time a tether connecting me to my undead is cut for some reason. The fun is because, well, it''s not often you get to shake a talking head that''s cursing you out in your own mind. Unexpectedly, as the mana tether feels like it''s about to snap, I hear a commotion from below. I look downwards and see that a bear of all things has attacked my undead wolves. It''s massive, easily twice the size of a normal bear, with matted brown fur and muscles rippling under its hide. [Bear - lvl 8] Clawed limbs lash out with terrifying force, raking through my wolves. It doesn''t even slow as it crushes one outright, its sheer bulk cratering the forest floor. Blood and rotting flesh spray across the dirt. Two seconds pass and two more are already torn apart, their limbs scattered across the forest floor. The sole remaining one is biting at the thing''s heel futilely as the bear advances. The massive creature rises up on its hind legs, standing nearly three meters tall, and lets out a roar that shakes leaves from the trees, and I can''t help but feel like this shit would have been quite scary...maybe 3 days ago or so. As the profanities of the goblin reach their absolute peak and the head in my hands begins to glow with an ominous green light in my perception, I make a split-second decision. "Let''s make you useful for once, huh?" I say to the head, and then wind up my arm like a pitcher on the mound. With practiced precision (or lucky timing), I throw the head like a baseball toward the fight below. The glowing head arcs through the air, trailing green fire like a comet. The bear looks up just in time. The last thing the creature probably sees is a snarling goblin head flying straight at its face. Then boom. A shockwave rips through the forest as the head detonates on impact, shattering everything in a five-meter radius. The wolves are caught in the blast, their undead bodies disintegrating instantly. The bear is obliterated, chunks of fur and flesh raining down like gory confetti. The ground is scorched in a circle, and a nearby tree trunk is splintered, the top half sliding off at an angle before crashing to the forest floor. Damn, even stronger than last time. Good thing I threw the bastard away, that would have stung like a bitch. Alas, I can''t help but wonder... is this... how mana is meant to be used? [You have killed a Bear - lvl 8] [Lvl 9 > Lvl 10] "Well, that''s useful, I suppose..." I mutter as I invest 3 more points in Constitution without a second thought. Now to gather the bastard¡¯s soul again. I drop from my perch, landing in the remains of my former undead and the thoroughly annihilated bear. But just as I move forward, something stops me. A new notification appears before my eyes. [Side quest] Reach level 10. Rewards: Trait of your choice I blink. Slowly. Since when was there something like this? I hadn''t seen it before. Was this always available and I just didn''t notice it, or did it trigger based on my actions? The notification expands before I can ponder further. [Well done! The side quest has been successfully completed. Please select one of the traits. The traits are based on your actions and performance up until now within the Tutorial. Be advised: humans are limited to three Traits. Choose with caution.] I stare at the floating text, my mind racing. This seems important¡ªpotentially game-changing, but... "Uhh, excuse me, but what the fuck is a trait?" The forest remains silent except for the soft crackling of the slightly-burning ground where the goblin head exploded. No further explanations appear. "... Fuck you Jim, this is your fault, somehow. I''m fucking sure of it..." The Choice Rapid Mana Heart (Passive) Drastically enhances the user¡¯s mana regeneration and capacity, allowing for near-instantaneous replenishment of spent mana. This trait enables seamless, continuous use of mana-based abilities with minimal downtime, making the user far more resilient in prolonged engagements. The rapid circulation of mana through the body also passively fortifies the user''s internal energy flow, ensuring a steady and efficient supply at all times. Morphing Tissue (Passive) The user¡¯s body gains an advanced regenerative property, not only healing wounds rapidly but also allowing for controlled morphing of flesh and muscle. Injuries mend at an accelerated rate, while the very structure of the body can be subtly reshaped into different tissues to optimize movement, enhance durability, or adapt to external forces. This trait ensures peak combat performance and provides an edge in situations requiring flexibility and resilience. Resilient Mana Circuit (Passive) A highly optimized and fortified network of mana pathways throughout the body, allowing the user to extract and utilize every last drop of mana with maximum efficiency. This trait ensures that no energy goes to waste, enabling powerful abilities even when reserves are critically low. The strengthened circuits also resist damage, making the user¡¯s mana flow far less susceptible to disruptions or external interference. Adaptive Resistance (Passive) The user''s body instinctively adjusts its resistances based on the types of damage it endures. With each successive hit of a particular nature¡ªbe it physical, magical, elemental, or otherwise¡ªthe body gradually develops a growing defense against it. This adaptation remains temporarily, providing increasing resilience against repeated threats. The longer the user survives an attack pattern, the harder they become to injure through the same means. Constitution-Enhanced Vitality (Passive) The user¡¯s constitution is continuously reinforced by their mana, passively bolstering health, stamina, and natural durability. This trait enhances bodily strength based on the user¡¯s physical robustness, making tougher bodies exponentially more resilient. As the user''s physical might increases, so too does their ability to endure punishment, recover from injuries, and sustain peak performance even in prolonged encounters. Resilient Skeleton (Passive) The user¡¯s skeletal structure is densely reinforced, dramatically increasing durability and resistance to fractures or crushing force. Bones become exceptionally tough while retaining their natural flexibility, making them capable of withstanding immense strain without breaking. This trait ensures superior structural integrity in combat, allowing the user to endure impacts that would shatter lesser bodies. Kinetic Diffusion (Passive) The user¡¯s body instinctively scatters and absorbs the force of incoming physical attacks, reducing their impact and mitigating damage. Whether from blunt strikes, slashes, or concussive blows, this trait diffuses kinetic energy across a broader area, diminishing the effectiveness of direct hits. While not outright nullifying attacks, it significantly lowers their lethality, making the user incredibly difficult to incapacitate through brute force alone. Regenerative Musculature (Passive) Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. The user¡¯s muscles are both reinforced and regenerative, continuously adapting to stress and damage. This trait not only grants increased physical strength but ensures that strained or torn muscle fibers heal and fortify themselves in real-time, reducing fatigue and enhancing long-term endurance. The stronger and more resilient the user¡¯s constitution, the more profound this effect becomes, allowing for sustained peak performance even under extreme duress. Eyes of Soul Perception (Active) The user gains the ability to perceive the intricate fluctuations of soul energy, allowing them to see the essence that lingers within all living things. This vision extends beyond mere physical sight, revealing the subtle currents of emotion, intent, and vitality that make up a being¡¯s true presence. I skim through the choices once. Twice. A dozen times. I read each description again and again, eyes flicking over the glowing text with the intensity of a dying man scouring a medical chart for a cure. My fingers idly press against my temple, bone shifting beneath my touch as I condense my helmet into place. A habit. A distraction. Anything to keep my hands busy while my mind races. I wonder¡ªshould I have tried to pull off more insane feats before hitting Level 10? Maybe something ridiculous enough to trigger one of those legendary traits you see in returnee stories or golden finger cheats. You know the type. The ones where some bastard reincarnates and gets a skill like Heaven Defying Omni-Absorption or Limitless Growth just for breathing aggressively near a dragon¡¯s corpse. Would it have made a difference? Probably not. If one of those freaks is out there, I¡¯m fucked anyway. No use crying about it. Still. The trait options laid out before me look good, I suppose. Some of them, anyway. Others are unquestionably trash. Take Rapid Mana Heart, for example. What kind of loser wants an easier time generating mana? My mana pool is already at ten, and that¡¯s because I¡¯ve been squeezing every last drop out of myself like a psychopath. Every time I run dry, my heart keeps pumping, keeps burning, pushing through that empty void until I force the mana back in. Why the hell would I want to make that easier? To lower my gains? Miss me with that shit. Same goes for Resilient Mana Circuit. "Oh, you get better results when resources are low!" No thanks. Real men don''t optimize mana efficiency¡ªthey ride the edge of collapse, force their blood to circulate manually, and hope they don¡¯t stroke out mid-cast. I¡¯ll admit, though¡ªthis is all because I can heal through Fleshcrafting. If I didn¡¯t have that, I''d probably be a pile of convulsing meat by now. But technically useful in a parallel universe doesn¡¯t cut it for me. Now, Constitution-Enhanced Vitality, Resilient Skeleton, and Regenerative Musculature all sound great. More durability, more toughness, more staying power. Good, right? But then¡ª Hey, I can do whatever these guys can do! Fleshcrafting pops out of the shadows, smug as hell, and I can¡¯t even argue. It''s true. Why would I lock myself into a single path when I can sculpt my body however I want? It¡¯s not that those traits are bad¡ªit¡¯s that they pale in comparison to freedom. I cut them from the list. Next up¡ªKinetic Diffusion. Now this is interesting. Pure magic mumbo jumbo shit. No physical equivalent. I can¡¯t brute-force my way into replicating it like I can with the others. It¡¯s an ability, a defensive mechanism, something I can''t mimic by myself. That¡¯s¡­ tempting. But then I read Adaptive Resistance again. The only thing that stopped me from picking it immediately is that ugly little word¡ª"temporary." But this is a magic world, no? How hard could it really be to take temporary and make it permanent? To turn "adaptation" into "evolution"? To inch one step closer to being an unstoppable, ever-changing force of nature? I drum my fingers against my thigh, my grin stretching wider. Doomsday who? But then there¡¯s Morphing Tissue. And that¡¯s where I get stuck. Because fuck, I want it. Fleshcrafting is already ridiculous, but this? This could take it to a whole other level. The problem? I don¡¯t know if I can already do what it promises. If I can, then it¡¯s just another redundancy¡ªlike the others that sound good until you realize I can make them obsolete with enough time and effort. But if I can¡¯t? If Morphing Tissue is something beyond what I¡¯m capable of? If it gives me new possibilities rather than just reinforcing old ones? Then skipping it would be the biggest mistake I could make. And I don¡¯t know. I don¡¯t fucking know enough. Because I¡¯ve only had this system for¡ªwhat? Four days? I haven¡¯t even scratched the surface of what I can do. What if I take the wrong thing? What if I lock myself out of something better? What if I¡ª The voices in my head argue, each side throwing out points and counterpoints, logic and instinct warring for control. But my grin just gets wider. So wide I feel the muscles in my cheeks strain, pull, tear, little micro-rips that don¡¯t even register before they stitch themselves back together. Because I¡¯ve already decided. I don¡¯t care. Not in the slightest. A breath. A chuckle. And then¡ª "I choose¡­ nothing." For a moment, the air holds still. The notification flickers as if uncertain, and then¡ª ¡ªit disappears. And I laugh. Gambling [Reward Denied] [Side Quest] Reach Level 20 Reward: Trait of your choice (The trait options will not be different than the ones previously available.) Well, well, well. Isn''t that interesting? Not completely mad after all, am I? I let out a breath, rolling my shoulders as the notification fades. No stat reductions, no divine punishment, no system-admin-induced aneurysm. No penalties¡ªnone besides the level requirement doubling. Good. I was never against taking a trait outright. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and all that. I''m not some lunatic screaming fuck the gods just to make a point. If the system¡ªthe closest thing to a god I''ve ever interacted with¡ªoffers me free power, I''m not going to reject it on principle. My decision wasn''t about baseless pride or some delusion that I''m the big-dicked protagonist of a harem novel, destined to win no matter the odds. No, no, no. I would rather put a bullet in my own skull than let my brain rot to that level. But still... Isn''t it true that I only delayed the inevitable? What difference does it make to take a trait now or in a week or two when I supposedly reach Level 20? Simple. I hate gambling. Why? Because winning isn''t guaranteed, of course. And what other purpose is there in life besides winning? Constantly winning against yourself, against your past mistakes, against the creeping stagnation that gnaws at the soul.
The twin suns beat down through gaps in the canopy, casting overlapping shadows that dance as I move through the forest to clear my mind a bit. Immediately, I find a goblin corpse looking like it was mauled by wolves. Unlucky guy. Its green skin is already turning ashen in the harsh daylight and its soul mist is already dissipating but I think it can be salvaged. My flesh whip sharpens a bit and digs into the still-warm flesh of its chest since direct contact helps me gather the soul more easily (or what remains of it). Stolen novel; please report. It''s not the most engaging of tasks, more akin to using a dust pan to gather... well, mist, I suppose, so it''s no wonder my thoughts keep wondering back to my earlier decision. The kind and friendly system didn''t ask me to make a calculated decision. It asked me to gamble. It wanted me to roll the dice on something that might shape my entire future. If the three traits I was considering were similar, it wouldn''t have been so bad. But they fucking weren''t. One was based on adaptation, another on Fleshcrafting, and the last one on souls. Not a single bit of overlap. And that means one thing¡ª One of them is objectively better for me than the other two. Which one? I have no fucking clue. It''s a Shell Game all over again. And I wasn''t there when the cups were mixed. ... So what does one do when they can''t find the ball? You guess, of course. Or¡ªyou cheat. You shake the fucking cups until you hear the ball rattling. You do it again and again until you find the correct one, even if it takes some time. And oh, would you look at that? I have days before I supposedly hit Level 20. What shall I do with my time? Maybe I should start experimenting. Who knows? Maybe I''ll learn something. Maybe¡ªjust maybe¡ªI''ll be able to morph tissue on my own. Or perhaps... I''ll learn to see souls just a little better. Of course, I''m not blind to the possible consequences. Someone luckier¡ªsomeone who chose their perfect trait from the start¡ªmight have a faster growth rate than me for a while. But so what? A good result doesn''t always mean the decision leading to it was a good one. And I, for one, am willing to sacrifice a bit of speed now to avoid cursing my past self months or years from now. I glance over my current setup. Goblin Shaman soul regathered? Check. Five wolves, each filled with random souls, seeping mana at a steady rate? Check. Red-haired girl aiming a flaming bow at me from a tree in the distance? Double check. ¡­Wait, what? I barely have time to process before the arrow hits- ¡ªand the ground erupts into fire. Flames roar to life, a sudden whoosh of heat blanketing over me. And then¡ª Everything burns.
(POV - Laclaire Noir) I lower my bow, breath coming fast and sharp, as I drop from the tree. My instincts scream at me to run the other way¡ªto flee¡ªbut I ignore them. Instead, I sprint toward the monster. The same monster I just shot. The same monster currently engulfed in flames. Madness. Absolute madness. But I don¡¯t have a choice. A spear hisses through the air, a blurred streak of metal cutting straight for my head. I jerk to the side, barely dodging it, and it slams into the tree in front of me. The impact sends a shockwave through the bark, splintering the wood, but I don¡¯t stop running. I bite back a curse as I push my body harder, fire erupting from the soles of my feet, propelling me forward in bursts of speed. The sudden acceleration burns my legs, my muscles protesting the abuse, but I don¡¯t slow down. I won¡¯t slow down. Behind me, I hear the pounding of footsteps¡ªthree of them. Annoying Bastards. But I can be faster. I twist in midair, twisting my torso without breaking stride, and pull back the string of my bow. Primal heat wells up in my chest, spiraling down my arms, igniting the arrow in my grip. The flame hungrily curls around the shaft, licking at my fingers, as I let it loose with a snarl. The burning projectile screams through the forest, streaking towards the three silhouettes behind me. One of them curses. Another dodges. The last one¡ª [Fire Manipulation Level 3 ¡ú Fire Manipulation Level 4] The notification flashes at the edge of my vision. I barely acknowledge it. I can¡¯t afford to be distracted. The flames trailing from my feet flicker for a split second, and my body wobbles mid-step. A mistake. I shouldn''t have looked. A blade whistles past my side, carving through the air where my ribs had been a heartbeat ago. I snap my focus back to the path ahead. Trees blur past in streaks of green and shadow. My lungs burn, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, but I can already see it through the trees. The flesh monster. Still burning. It hasn¡¯t moved since the arrow struck. Just¡­ standing there, wreathed in fire, like some demon out of legend. If I can just reach it¡ªif I can maneuver this right¡ªI might just make it out of this alive. No. Not might. I will make it out. Even if I have to burn this entire damned forest to the ground. Unbelievable showdown! The flames lick at my body, hungrily devouring the outermost layer of troll flesh, but they barely make it past the first muscle layer. Heat sears across my form, burning as if my body is made of oil, yet there is no pain¡ªonly the distant awareness of destruction. I strip away a muscle layer from my bone helmet, peeling it back to clear my vision. The fire crackles, shifting in hues of orange and blue as it struggles to sustain itself against my flesh. I observe it calmly, taking note of its effects. Despite the possibility of combat looming ahead, my mind remains cold and detached. No instinctive panic, no reckless aggression¡ªjust stillness. Calculation. I haven¡¯t chosen a course of action yet, and until I do, there¡¯s no reason to go apeshit¡­ yet. First, assessing personal integrity. I flex my fingers. No loss of mobility. The muscle beneath the flames remains intact, though the outermost layer blackens, curling into flakes of charred tissue before sloughing away. Interesting. I¡¯m prepared to strip away the affected bits if necessary, but the fire¡ªthough magical¡ªisn¡¯t absolute. No Amaterasu bullshit. It doesn¡¯t consume endlessly. It weakens. Flickers. Dies. I continue to watch as the flames begin to fade, their power waning with every second. Second, assessing surroundings. A figure¡ªsmall, fast¡ªcharging straight toward me, fire erupting from her feet with every stride. The flames surge and dissipate in controlled bursts, each one propelling her forward with impossible speed. She¡¯s not just running¡ªshe¡¯s launching herself. Red hair. Smeared with blood, matted with dirt. A torn t-shirt clings to her frame, fabric stained and barely holding together, but I can still make out a faded design¡ªa race car. A bow gripped tightly in her hand. A quiver slung across her back. Her form is lean, built for speed. Sprinting at a pace that would make Olympic athletes look like toddlers. Which means¡ªheavy Dexterity investment. Which also means sacrifices in Strength, Constitution and Mana. Unless, of course, she¡¯s figured out some way to cheese the numbers like I did. As she approaches, I keep my attention split, scanning the surroundings as well. And there, in the distance, three armed men emerge from the treeline. I recognize them immediately. The same three men I saw two days ago. The ones who ran from me. Now they''re running after the red-haired girl, weapons in hand, determination in their strides. Third, assess the situation. Simple, really. The three cowards/cautious guys¡ªapparently found their courage. Maybe they regrouped, maybe they convinced themselves I wasn¡¯t as dangerous as I seemed. Either way, I am being attacked. The real question is¡ªhow do I respond? Red enters the radius of my Flesh Perception, and I feel her body. At first, it¡¯s faint. Her footfalls reverberate through the ground¡ªlighter than expected, but forceful, controlled. Muscle fibers contract and release in her legs at unnatural speeds, a fine-tuned mechanism of propulsion. The tendons stretch and snap back like coiled springs, absorbing impact with inhuman precision. She knows her body well. As she gets closer, the details become clearer. Her breath is shallow but steady, controlled despite the exertion. Her heart pounds in her chest, not with exhaustion, but with focus. I can feel the precise tension in her quadriceps, the slight imbalance in her gait favoring her right side, the way her intercostal muscles strain with each breath. If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Do I bother with words? Would speaking even make a difference? Could I even afford such a distraction, standing against four individuals of unknown strength? Hmm... well, there¡¯s always a balance to be found... The red-haired girl is right in front of me now. I can see the shift in her grip¡ªthe subtle tightening of her fingers. Her bow is raised, her arrow already nocked, the tip aimed directly at my head. I don¡¯t move. I don¡¯t even flinch. I just meet her gaze. My bone helmet still covers most of my face, my eyes barely visible through the shifting layers, but I stare straight into hers regardless. And I speak. "WAIT, PLEASE! I AM A HUMAN, NOT A MONSTER!" I feel the reaction before I see it. A twitch. A hesitation. Her breath catches. Her eyes widen¡ªnot in fear, but in shock. Her fingers¡ªone millimeter away from releasing the arrow¡ªtense, uncertain. But she doesn¡¯t stop running. Shit. I sigh inwardly, already knowing, feeling the answer. She won¡¯t stop. And neither will the others. I feel the shifting mass of muscle behind her¡ªthree bodies, closing in. One of them-a buff guy with shoulders like small boulders and a spear¡ªhas already raised his arm, weight pressing into his back foot. He¡¯s winding up for a throw, angling his body for maximum force. I barely have a second. The cold, detached clarity I had moments ago starts to recede, giving way to something else. Adrenaline. I feel it surge through me, washing over my limbs, burning away hesitation. If they want to dance¡­ My flesh whip coils, ready to strike. I can only oblige. Alas, before I can get another word in¡ªbefore I can push the momentum of that momentary hesitation¡ªthe girl suddenly twists in midair. A clean, practiced motion. Her torso pivots, her feet leave the ground, and her arms move in one fluid motion as she looses the arrow. Not at me. At them. Oh. The projectile screams through the air, wreathed in fire, cutting a straight path toward the three men chasing her. The spear guy reacts first. His stance shifts. A quick movement¡ªhis spear blurs as he swings it upward, intercepting the arrow before it reaches them. The projectile shatters on impact, exploding into a shower of fire as the other two-a middle-aged man with a weathered face and a black teenager with wide, terrified eyes -dive out of the way. The flames lick at their clothes but don¡¯t catch. They hit the dirt, roll, and immediately spring back to their feet. I blink, my thoughts struggling to catch up with the reality of what¡¯s happening. "Umm, excuse me?" I actually say that. Out loud. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, dripping with sheer confusion. Because the girl¡ªthe one who had an arrow aimed at my head not two seconds ago¡ªdoesn¡¯t even glance at me anymore. As if I had suddenly become a pebble on the sidewalk. She just keeps running past me, her bare feet leaving blackened grass in her wake. ¡­Could I have reached her with my whip? Probably. Did I? No, there was no reason to. Because I think I finally understand what''s happening as the spear guy throws his weapon not toward me, but toward the fleeing girl. These guys are enemies. Red simply tried to use a "monster" as an obstacle to get rid of her pursuers. So I do the most reasonable thing in this situation. "I WANT NO PART IN THIS SHIT!" I shout it at the top of my lungs, voice booming through the forest, despite the fact that the impact of the spear as it hits the ground (the girl dodges with a graceful twist) is far from impressive. The swear word should at least cement the fact that I''m a human. Most of the monsters I''ve seen so far didn''t have a particularly colorful english language, after all. And indeed, my shout has its intended effect. The buff guy¡ªbare-chested, covered in burns, his skin smeared with dirt and dried blood¡ªdoesn''t even spare me a glance as he rushes past. Just like the girl did. His focus is entirely on his prey. That¡¯s fine by me. Not like I have any reason to stop him. ¡­Even if I could use some human souls for my experiments. No, no¡ªtoo little information. What if murderers are marked by the System in some way? What if there¡¯s some kind of cosmic karmic counterbalance bullshit I don¡¯t know about? Gotta ask the buff guy if he manages to kill the chick. Morals? Chivalry? What are those? Can they be Fleshcrafted? Besides, if there was a monster chasing either of them, I would¡¯ve already interfered. But this? This was a human dispute about which I knew nothing, and didn''t particularly care about. The middle-aged man passes next. He actually looks at me¡ªlike one might at a particularly rabid dog¡ªbut then¡­ he nods. A brief, quick motion. Then, he follows after spear guy, but gives me a wide berth. Smart guy. He looks weak as fuck, but moves fast even with a sword at his hip. Makes me wonder how that girl is still alive. The black teenager, though, looks the worst out of them, puffing and wheezing as he falls behind. No, not falling behind but voluntarily stopping... a few meters away from me. The others disappear into the forest, leaving nothing but trampled undergrowth and lingering wisps of smoke from the girl''s footprints. But this guy stands there, panting like a fish out of water. He¡¯s clearly at his limit. I can feel his heart pounding¡ªa frantic rhythm hammering at nearly 200 beats per minute. He¡¯s clearly both tired and afraid. ¡­But despite all that, he hasn¡¯t run yet. He¡¯s just¡­ staring at me. Like he wants to talk¡­ or maybe just process whatever the hell I am. So, being the gentleman I am, I decide to break the ice. "Hello there." The dude jumps five feet away like I just pulled a chainsaw out of my chest cavity. What the fuck? Did I say something wrong? Or is it just my voice and appearance? Ah, I know. Maybe I spoke the wrong language. Let¡¯s rectify that. "Wsup dawg, haven¡¯t seen you in days, homie. Where the opps at?" " ¡­ " He just stares at me, completely deadpan. "Sorry, did I get the pronunciation wrong?" Matthew Rivers (Pov - Matthew Rivers) I never thought I''d die in a forest, and even now, I hope it won''t happen. Always figured it''d be back in the neighborhood¡ªwrong place, wrong time kinda deal. Maybe caught in a drive-by meant for someone else, or in a corner store during a robbery gone wrong. That''s how it goes for too many of us. Not that I was planning on checking out early, but a man''s gotta be realistic. But this? Running after some psycho white girl with a flaming bow while following two other dudes who look like they walked straight outta medieval fantasy? This ain''t reality. At least, it wasn''t four days ago. "Sorry, did I get the pronunciation wrong?" The thing in front of me asks. My head feels light...did he just say what I think he said? Are my ears fucked up? My lungs are on fire. Karl and John are somewhere in front of me. Part of me thinks I should keep going, keep helping them hunt her down. But I can''t. Not just ''cause my body''s giving out. I get it though... well, not really, since I didn''t lose a brother, but still. Watching a man cave a girl''s skull in? Nah. I got enough nightmares already. Fuck, I feel lightheaded. Gotta focus on what''s in front of me. The monster? Did he fucking call me homie? The words come unbidden - "You¡­ speak English¡­" I barely manage to wheeze out, lungs burning, legs shaking, and my whole body screaming at me for stopping. It says much about the situation that I don''t even feel dumb saying it. I probably should''ve just kept running, but my feet had planted themselves in the ground before I could even think. And now I''m standing in front of¡­ this. Three meters tall. Blackened bone plates covering his whole body like armor, smoke still rising from his charred flesh. I can see the burned muscle underneath, twitching like something alive. And his head. A wolf skull. A real-ass bone helmet, fused with his face, leaving only the faintest hint of eyes behind the hollow sockets. Deep within those empty sockets, I can just make out a pair of eyes, completely dark¡ªwhether from shadow or something else, I can''t tell. Like staring into an abyss that somehow stares back. This ain''t a man. But my Empathy says he isn''t a monster, either. I don''t feel hatred. No rage, no murderous intent. Just¡­ nothing. Neutral. Like a rock. Like a ghost of a person standing before me, wearing a body that ain''t even his anymore. Which is somehow more terrifying than anything else. And then¡ª "No shit." His voice comes out distorted, raw, like someone talking through broken speakers. "What did you expect? Latin? Sanskrit? The ancient tongue of the elder gods?" I blink. Then I laugh. I don''t even mean to, but the sheer sass coming out of this horror movie reject just¡­ breaks something in me. I''ve had nightmares about this guy. "Just making sure, man." I straighten up, trying to look casual while standing in front of a nightmare. "You''re Carter, right? From the bar?" Was that his name? I remember the guy from day one¡ªthe quiet dude who kept to himself at the bar before all this shit went down. The guy who killed the first goblin. I could swear bro died. Except, you know, that''s apparently Carter. He looks different now. Real different. Gotta believe it''s him, or I''m fucked either way. He tilts his head¡ªor rather, the wolf skull helmet tilts. "And you''re...?" "Matthew. Matthew Rivers." I pause, not sure if I should offer my hand to shake. I decide against it. "I was at the corner table when all this went down." "Mmm." The sound resonates from somewhere inside that bone armor. "Well, my visual memory is quite shitty usually so I can''t say I recognize you. Alas, mind explaining why you and your buddies were chasing that girl?" His tone is polite. Like he didn''t just see a whole-ass war scene play out. Like we''re just shooting the shit and not standing in the middle of a goddamn burnt clearing where people were trying to murder each other. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. If the whole Hannibal thing didn''t ring any alarm bells, this certainly fucking would. I swallow, trying to calm my breath. I glance toward the trees where Karl and the others disappeared. I still hear nothing. No screams. No fighting. Maybe it''s over already. Maybe Karl got her. Maybe she got away. Either way, I sigh. It''s not like it''s a secret. "It''s Karl. You know, the spear guy. His brother died on the first day. She was involved. That''s it." No rage in my voice. Because I don''t feel any. "Oh, she started the fire? I heard it was on accident though. Something about her being... attacked and defending herself," Carter says in a mild voice, as if speaking about the weather. I shift my weight, suddenly uncomfortable, but at least him knowing this is one more point for him being human. "I don''t know the whole story, man. You gotta ask him personally. I''ve been very, very, very drunk when that shit went down." Honestly I don''t even know how I survived. "But Karl''s been obsessed with finding her ever since." He hums in agreement. "And you?" he asks. I look at him. He doesn''t blink. Probably fucking can''t, like what the fuck even is this. The twin suns beat down through the canopy, casting double shadows that make everything look wrong somehow. Makes him look even more unnatural. Holy shit, I got distracted. What was even the question!? "M-Me?" "Yeah, bro, you. Are you obsessed too?" Ah... that. I shrug. "I just¡­ I don''t got beef with her. But I got bigger beef with being alone in a damn death forest..." I trail off, not sure how to explain myself without sounding like an amoral bastard. "... Karl and John are the only allies I got out here. Can''t exactly survive on my own." ...but that would just be lying, no? He makes a humming sound, tilting his wolf skull like he''s thinking. "Smart choice," he finally says. "If you''re weak, stay with the strong. That''s how you survive." His words should feel cold. But they don''t. They just feel¡­ factual. "But you stopped following them. Is that all right?" He asks and for a moment I stay silent. "Yeah." I look down at my hands. "I don''t want to see what happens when they catch her," I say firmly, mostly for myself. Carter makes a sound that might be a laugh, a hollow rattle that echoes from within the skull helmet. "Noble of you." "Nothing noble about it. Just don''t want those kinda images in my head." I look up at him. "What about you? What''ve you been doing out here? Oh, and sorry for running away from you back then..." "Don''t worry about it, and surviving, mostly." He gestures to his body. "Adapting." "Is that what this is?" I wave my hand at his whole... situation. "Some kind of adaptation?" "Fleshcrafting," he says, like that explains everything. "My skill. It does what it says, moving flesh and stuff. This whole thing on me is just an armor I made out of wolf bones." I feel like gaping. You call that just some armor? Holy fuck, I can see the helmet embedded in his fucking head. Still... Better than the alternative. "So you''re actually human under all that?" "More or less." I''m not sure what "less" means in this context, but I don''t push it. Carter stays silent for a moment, then hums. "And you?" he asks. "What have you been doing these past few days?" I blink. Are we doing small talk? We definitely are. That''s good, no? ¡­ Might as well answer. "I''ve been acting as a scout for my group. My Farsight skill lets me see things from a distance, and..." Should I reveal that? It''s not mind control or anything so it should be fine... "My Empathy lets me get a read on people..." His posture doesn''t change, but I feel like he''s more interested now. That''s good, right? I still don''t feel any anger from him, merely curiosity. "Not exactly combat-ready, you know? I can see things from far away with Farsight, like, really detailed though." And what a thrill that is. I still get lost staring at leaves from time to time. "Useful." "Yeah, if you''re not the one who has to fight after spotting the danger." I chuckle, then get serious. Might as well prod for a bit of information. "Say, bro, you seem like... you know what you''re doing... What do you think about all this? The tutorial, the system, all of it?" Carter is quiet for a moment, like he''s considering how much to tell me. He really looks scary, but now that I talk with him, the fear feels much more restrained, like watching a... guy in a scary suit instead of an actual monster. "I think we''re lab rats in someone''s experiment. Or toys in a game. Either way, we play or we die." "So you''re playing?" He spreads his arms, bone plates shifting with the movement. "What does it look like?" Fair point. I exhale through my nose. "I think," I say, "fuck whoever set this up." His laugh is louder this time. "Fair," he says. "Fair enough. You seem pretty calm for someone who got yanked from Earth into monster-filled woods." I think about Ma, about her face when I told her I was just going out for a bit. About how I never came home. "I''m just trying to survive long enough to get back. Got things to make right." "Don''t we all..." There''s a moment of silence between us. The forest sounds fill the gap¡ªleaves rustling, the distant sound of something large moving through the underbrush. He''s the one to break it. "And what''s your Level?" My mind grows cold in a moment. So we''re prodding now, huh? No matter how much civility he showed, we''re still in place where the strongest makes the rules. Karl''s the best example. "Four." I say, dryly. It''s actually 5, but we''re still strangers. His emotions do not waver. His head tilts again. "Impressive." I scoff. "Nah, Karl did all the work. Mauled wolves, beat goblins, left ''em half-dead so I could finish ''em off." Carter actually chuckles. I realize his voice somehow sounds much more human than before. It changed as we talked and I didn''t even realize... "A generous man," he muses. I don''t respond. Because I don''t know if that''s sarcasm or not. "How about you, man? What level are you?" "Ten," he says casually, as if it''s not worth mentioning. What the actual fuck. Karl is only at 8. Is he maybe lying? No... That''s the smallest probability. If anything, his level is even higher. What the fuck. I have so many follow-up questions. But instead... "Yo." He looks at me. "Can I roll with you?" The question comes out before I''ve fully thought it through, but once it''s out, I realize I mean it. Silence. Then¡ª He laughs. A real, genuine chuckle, deep and hollow, like bones rattling in an empty grave, but I keep on talking. "Karl''s losing it, man. John follows him like a puppy. They''re going down a road I don''t want any part of." I don''t know when I made my decision. Maybe it was when I realized he wasn''t planning to eat me alive. Maybe it was when Karl kept running without a second glance, leaving me behind. "And you think following me is safer?" There''s amusement in his voice, but the feeling I get from him is still completely calm. "My Empathy says you don''t want to hurt me. That''s more than I can say for a lot of things out here." "Neutrality isn''t the same as protection." "I know that. But I can be useful." I tap the side of my head. "Farsight, remember? I can scout ahead, spot trouble before it finds us." Carter makes that sound again¡ªthe one that might be a laugh. "Sure," he says eventually. "If you survive, be my guest." That throws me off. "If I surv¡ª" Something cold runs through me. A feeling I''ve never felt before, like ice water replacing my blood. My Empathy skill activates without me willing it, and suddenly I know¡ªthere''s hatred directed at me. Pure, focused hatred. On instinct, I activate Farsight, scanning the trees behind me. There¡ªa flash of red hair. A bow drawn back. Flames licking along the arrow''s shaft. I try to shout, to move, to do anything. But it''s too late. The arrow flies. Fire erupts. Pain¡ªbrief and all-consuming¡ªlances through my head. Then nothing. Silence The arrow pierces through Matthew¡¯s head, and for a split second, everything holds still. Then, the shaft explodes in a violent bloom of fire, splintering apart as if trying to rip the air itself apart. A fiery shockwave follows, a brief burst of heat washing over me as the corpse topples forward, the impact sending up a small cloud of dust. His skull is half-gone, the edges of the wound cauterized black, wisps of smoke curling from the charred flesh. Blood doesn''t even have a chance to flow¡ªthe heat seals the vessels instantly, leaving just a hollow, smoking cavity where thoughts used to be. Tough luck, bro. Should¡¯ve had more Constitution. I barely spare him another glance, instead turning my gaze to where the arrow came from. The murderer is already limping away, her movements sharp and desperate. She glances back at me, her eyes feral¡ªwild, yet focused, as if gauging whether I¡¯d pursue. The grass beneath her feet catches fire with each step, the flames licking hungrily at the earth before quickly fading. I simply observe her in turn, noting the details. A large, cauterized hole tears through her abdomen, raw and angry, the flesh around it blackened. There''s also a stab wound on her shoulder, deep enough that I can see it clearly even from this distance, the edges torn as if the blade had been yanked out roughly. Blood soaks the fabric around it, but not enough to suggest a severed artery. She''s wounded badly, but I don''t think she''s on death''s door just yet. The ability to draw her bow so accurately, combined with enough firepower to kill Matthew in one hit, doesn''t speak of complete exhaustion, even if her wounds do seem quite deadly. Interesting. I wonder if she killed the other two. I glance around the clearing but see no sign of them. No bodies, no movement. That¡¯s impressive. If she took them both down, then she did so quickly enough that they didn¡¯t even make a sound. I shall search for their corpses later. That should answer my questions. She disappears into the distance, swallowed by the dense foliage of the forest, and I let my gaze fall back to Matthew¡¯s smoldering remains. The body twitches slightly, nerves firing off their last desperate impulses before finally going still. ...This was, mere moments ago, a person with hopes and fears. I could have saved Matthew, certainly. You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. A simple step, a raised hand, and the arrow would have missed. Or I could have warned him, given him the split second he needed to dodge. I could have tried to reason with the girl before she attacked, convince her that vengeance wouldn''t bring peace. But I didn''t. Because ultimately, their conflict wasn''t mine. Their deaths¡ªor survival¡ªcontribute to my goals only insofar as they provide resources or obstacles. Matthew''s soul serves me better than Matthew himself would have, at least for now. The girl''s continued existence may prove useful, or it may not. Time will tell. I take a moment to examine my thoughts. And I find myself¡­ uncaring. It¡¯s not ignorance. It¡¯s not obliviousness. I know well the benefits of cooperation and morality¡ªhow they allowed humanity to rise above and beyond, how they let us thrive against all odds. Even here, in this so-called ¡°Tutorial,¡± the principle should hold true. Even if the rules seem to favor the strong, even if everything is tilting toward a world where one man might one day be able to wipe out armies, the foundation of civilization might still have value. And yet, I do not quite subscribe to the notions of good and evil. Was the girl evil for killing a defenseless teen? Was Matthew evil for being part of an attempted murder? Was Karl¡ªthe spear guy, whatever his name was¡ªthe true villain for fueling this entire conflict? Or am I the evil one for not interfering, for not stopping this pointless bloodshed when I likely could have? Different people would give different answers. Some would say yes, others no, all drawing from their own beliefs and perspectives. And every single one of them would be correct in some shape or form. And I would agree with all of them. Because there is wisdom to be gained from everything. But I also do not care. Because I am me, myself, and I. No one else. And the final decision belongs to me and me alone. No made-up human construct shall restrain me. No belief shall bind me save for my own. This is the path I have chosen. Because to me, there is no good nor evil¡ªmerely desires. And the echoes they leave behind as they clash against one another. A single thought, and the soul mist seeping from Matthew¡¯s corpse begins to condense. It feels¡­ heavy. Much heavier than any other soul I¡¯ve absorbed thus far. So much more potent. I recall the fat man who died on the first day. His soul mist had been beyond my ability to budge back then, and now I understand why. It¡¯s a matter of strength. Of ability. More testing is needed. But this time, I can make it work. This time, I will have a human soul to study. The clearing grows silent. I close my eyes for a moment, letting the wind wash over me, and replay the events once more in my mind. In the end, I am quite satisfied with how things turned out. Sure, I could have slaughtered the other humans. It would have been possible. I¡¯d certainly have more material to work with. But more doesn¡¯t always mean better. Having a hundred bananas sounds great in theory until you realize you can only eat ten or twenty before the rest spoil. Souls aren¡¯t bananas, obviously, but I imagine at least one or two would have dissipated before I could store them properly. And that was before I realized how potent human souls are. Another option would have been to restrain all of them, force a ceasefire, and coerce them into working together with me. That might have worked. But it also seemed¡­ unfeasible. They were already locked in a cycle of violence. Mortal enemies. Forcing them to cooperate would have required more effort than it was worth. I go over everything one last time, then push the thoughts away. What¡¯s done is done. Can¡¯t change the past. Not without chronomancy, at least. I take a deep breath and glance around the clearing. The blood, the burnt grass, the smoldering corpse. All silent. The wind picks up again, rustling the leaves. There is training to be done, improvements to be made... And I am wasting time. Peaceful times Mental Journal Entry - Day 5 Main Subject: The Soul of Matthew Rivers Matthew Rivers¡¯ soul has proven to be an anomaly compared to previous acquisitions. Unlike the goblins and wolves, whose lingering thoughts remain an unintelligible mess due to the language barrier, Matthew¡¯s consciousness is fully comprehensible when accessed within the Soul Well. His thoughts, fragmented and disjointed as they may be, are clear. This discovery is significant. Direct communication isn¡¯t possible¡ªat least, not yet¡ªbut understanding a soul¡¯s lingering mind offers insight into its nature. Observations: 1. The Soul Well is unpleasant for its occupants. Not outright torment, but discomfort. A restless, inescapable tension. Matthew¡¯s thoughts carried a sense of confusion, unease¡ªlike a man lost in the dark, searching for something he could never find. 2. Souls do not perceive my presence within the Well. Regardless of my attempts to interact, prod, or even speak, Matthew remained oblivious to me. Whether this is a fundamental rule or a limitation of my current ability is uncertain. Possible avenue for improvement. 3. The Soul Well induces hibernation over time. Matthew¡¯s thoughts became sluggish the longer he remained. Eventually, his consciousness faded into dormancy, resembling an animal slipping into a deep slumber. 4. Souls can perceive each other. While within the Well, Matthew reacted to other souls¡ªspecifically the wolves and goblins. He did not understand them but could hear them. (Possible avenue of research) 5. Extraction from the Soul Well is agonizing. (Confirmed.) Suspected this based on prior, smaller-scale experiments, but Matthew¡¯s reaction solidifies it. The moment I pulled his soul out, his thoughts became erratic, then erupted into a soul-rattling scream¡ªa soundless wail that reverberated through the Well itself. Unlike entry, which seems painless, the exit process is¡­ unpleasant. Forcibly pulling a soul free appears to be an inherently violent act.
Experimentation Attempt - Embedding Matthew Rivers¡¯ Soul into a Corpse Purpose: To test the viability of human soul reanimation Outcome: Failure Upon extraction, the soul suffered an unexpected amount of damage. Possible cause: High potency of human souls requiring more precise manipulation. The resulting undead was completely unresponsive. Catatonic. Not aggressive, not active¡ªsimply¡­ not working properly. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Soul mist was regathered and reintroduced into the Well, but: Volume reduction estimated at 10-15%. Soul activity drastically reduced. No further changes observed in the following hours. Prognosis: Unknown. Conclusion: I lack the finesse necessary to safely manipulate a potent human soul. My technique is inefficient, crude. Further refinement is required before attempting another embedding. Recommendation: Improve soul manipulation. Avoid further irreversible fuck-ups. Additional Notes: The bodies of humans "Karl" and "John" remain missing. Only evidence: A small patch of burned forest where the altercation took place. Presumed status: Alive. No further sightings of "Red." Presumed status: Alive Monster strength within the current area has been deemed insufficient. Current growth rate unacceptable. Proceeding deeper into the forest. - Reviewed by Discipline. (End of Entry)
Mental Journal Entry - Day 7 Subject: Humbled by a Goblin Yes, it was a Level 8 Goblin Warrior, which technically makes it a potato-potatho situation, but the fact remains¡ªone of the little green bastards forced me to acknowledge a flaw in my approach. This one was different. Smarter. It watched as its kin fell one by one, each collapsing the moment they were touched by my flesh whip. Instead of mindlessly charging to its doom, it adapted¡ªducking, weaving, and slipping past every attack I sent its way for a solid ten minutes. It only died because endurance is finite, and desperation forces mistakes. But the lesson remains. Key Takeaways: 1. Dexterity Cannot Be Allowed to Fall Behind. Strength, Constitution, Mana¡ªthese are all well and good, but they mean nothing if I cannot hit my opponent. The goblin understood my attack patterns. It adjusted. I could not, due to my limited speed. 2. Fleshcrafting is NOT the Same as Flesh Manipulation. I had assumed that by increasing my control over dead tissue, I could force greater speed. This is incorrect. The more I attempted to manually accelerate motion, the greater the diminishing returns became. At the end of the day, I am still forcing dead tissue to move. The process is inefficient, slow, and fundamentally flawed. 3. The "Flesh Mech" Initiative is a Failure. (For Now.) Replacing my own body parts with dead tissue, then attempting to move them artificially, is not a viable solution. The dead must be integrated, not simply worn. True incorporation is required, rather than mere attachment. Dexterity cannot be bypassed entirely. It must be either trained or forcefully acquired via bodily modification. Immediate Action Plan: Abandon the Flesh Mech project. (Initiative shelved for future reconsideration.) Explore alternative methods of enhancing Dexterity. Begin testing modifications for seamless tissue incorporation. Humbled, but better for it. - Reviewed by Reason. (End of Entry)
Mental Journal Entry - Day 10 Training is good. Training is good. Monsters too weak. Need more training. Then sleep, but first¡ªtraining. I made a hole. Filled it with undead. They struggle. I take their bones. They require constant mana sustenance. Good mana training. Covered the hole with dirt. Buried them. No escape. More mana required. Raise boulders. Arms break. Repair arms. Legs break. Repair legs. Heart bursts. Repair heart. Brain bur¡ªNO! Protect brain! Good. Raise more boulders. Strength training. Gave Goblin Shaman a fast body. Told it to run. Doesn''t understand. Tries to kill me. Good. Run from flying boulders. Run from explosions. It runs well. I run better. Made more nerves, faster nerves. Good Dexterity training. Heart bursts. +1 mana. Gooood ttt-training. Level up! More points in Constitution! Made two more hearts! Made bigger lungs! Suppressed thymus. Embedded troll marrow in bones. Too weak. Mine is better. Trolls have low Constitution. Disappointing. Now¡­ sleep. (End of Entry)
Mental Journal Entry - Day 15 This is beautiful! This is BEAUTIFUL! I CAN SEE THEM! I CAN SEE THE CELLS THEMSELVES! Flesh Perception at Level 7 is barely enough, but¡ª I see them. I FEEL THEM. Nerves¡ªlightning-fast tendrils, weaving through my body, carrying every sensation like whispers of a hidden language. Bones¡ªpillars of mineral and marrow, rigid yet alive, constantly reshaping, constantly adapting. Muscles¡ªfibrous ropes of potential energy, coiling and uncoiling with purpose, each strand a soldier awaiting my command. Connective tissue¡ªthe webbing of existence, binding it all together, the unyielding glue that holds this miracle in place. EVERY. SINGLE. BIT. EVERY STRAND, EVERY FIBER, EVERY LIVING BREATHING PIECE OF ME¡ªBENDS TO MY WILL. I FEEL IT. I COMMAND IT. CELLULAR MACHINERY, FORGED OVER BILLIONS OF YEARS, BOWS BEFORE A MERE THOUGHT. I can control their division! Not quickly. Not yet. Barely more than a whisper against the tide of nature¡¯s will¡ª But they groooow. It makes me woozy. It makes me lightheaded. But it woooorks. THE CELLULAR CLOCK¡ªREVERSED. THIS IS FUCKING IMMORTALITYYYYY. *cough cough* Ah, where was I? Ah, yes. Let¡¯s try making... [Side Quest - Completed] Get one skill to Level 10. Rewards: 1 Skill Upgrade Token 1 Tutorial Difficulty Change Token Huh? (End of Entry)